


His to Hold (Part One)

by Mirtai



Series: His To Hold [1]
Category: Smallville
Genre: AU, Fluff and Angst, Implied or Off-stage Rape/Non-con, M/M, Regency Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-26
Updated: 2012-08-26
Packaged: 2017-11-12 22:44:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 79,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/496478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mirtai/pseuds/Mirtai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wherein Acquaintance is Struck under Dramatic Circumstances and Nature takes its Course</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Which A Prodigal Returns to the Fold

**Author's Note:**

> One day, early in 2005, I felt like writing a Regency Romance, and this is the result. I have no doubts that Georgette Heyer, any number of her imitators (successful or otherwise) and even Barbara Cartland are all rolling in their graves at this instant. I apologise to their shades. However, this was intended largely as a stylistic exercise and I had fun with it. I hope you do too.
> 
> Of course, this has to be taken as an Alternate Reality, because in this world, everybody is bisexual, and everybody else knows it. However, I left certain social matters such as the laws of primogeniture and succession pretty much as they actually were in early 19th-Century England, so matters of marriage and inheritance are still important in this make-believe society of mine for reasons which, I trust, are obvious.
> 
> My profuse thanks, once again, go to pepperjackcandy, sunskjkid and moriavis for their assistance during the writing process and editing. All mistakes and other infelicities are the result either of my post-beta tampering, or my ignoring their advice, both of which I am pretty sure I have done.
> 
> "His to Hold" will be issued in AO3 in three multi-chaptered parts.

Lucas Dunleavy looked up from his idle perusal of the morning newspaper on hearing the commotion at his front door. 

“Whistler?” he called out to his man. “Whistler, what the devil is that row?” 

A laughing voice answered him. “Now, is that any way to greet your brother? Or were you expecting the duns?” 

Lucas’ ill  spirits disappeared in an instant at the sight of the tall, slim figure in the door of his breakfast parlour. He came to his feet, smiling broadly, and went to embrace his visitor,  who had just deposited his hat and whip in Whistler’s hands. 

“Lex, by all that’s holy!” His embrace was returned easily. “Let me look at you. I didn’t expect to see you back in the country for at least another three months!” 

“As to that,” Alexander Luthor, Marquis of Rutherford, said, stripping off his gloves and  unbuttoning his many-caped  riding coat, “it’s my understanding that Mr. Senatori is making a full recovery. I therefore judged the coast clear.” 

“It’s true the man’s going to be back to his usual obnoxious self soon enough. However,  you were not wont to find  Paris so uninteresting as all that, as I recall?” Lucas queried shrewdly. “Come, Lex, what was it? A woman, or the cards?” 

There was a chuckle from Lex as he seated himself at the table. Whistler bustled to set  another place before his master’s mercurial  older sibling. 

“Come to think of it,” Lex acknowledged lazily, “he had been losing rather heavily at the  tables. On the face of it, however, it was a woman; his fiancée, a certain Mademoiselle Aimée de Saint Bertrand.” 

“You fail to mention the name of the aggrieved party.” 

“Aggrieved?” Lex objected. “I can assure you, the lady was the subject of nothing more than the usual gallantries on my part. She was not of the least interest to me.” 

Lucas looked at him, amused. “Aye, but maybe you were of interest to her.”

“That was entirely irrelevant to me. If you must know,” he added, with a faint smirk, “it  was her brother I was after.”

Lucas rolled his eyes. “I trust he was worth the trouble. Her suitor’s name?” 

“M. de Chamerolles,” Lex said, accepting a dish of poached eggs from Whistler. 

Lucas’ eyes widened. “De Chamerolles? Lex, they’re related to the Condés!” 

Lex’s fine mouth twisted a little in self-mocking deprecation. “I was not aware of that  connection until after the challenge  had been made and accepted. What’s more, I confess to finding myself a little piqued that you appear to know of it, where I did not.” 

“I believe I spend a good deal more time reading the social gazettes than you do. Does the gentleman live?” 

“My  dear Lucas, I thought you knew me well enough to know that I never miss. When I duel, if I wished my opponent dead, he would be dead. I am too skilled with both the sword  and the pistol to have it otherwise.” 

“Then why must you wound them so seriously?”

“I would not have it thought that I am an easy mark,” he answered lightly. 

“I doubt anyone in his right mind would do so.” 

Lex just smiled faintly, and turned his serious consideration to Whistler’s offer of ale or  porter to accompany his breakfast. Lucas gazed on his half-brother with affectionate amusement. 

Their history  – his and Lex’s –  was a complex one. Alexander Joseph Luthor (Lex, to his intimates) was the oldest and, in fact, only legitimate child of the redoubtable Duke of Lanchester,  Lionel Luthor. Lex’s mother, born Lillian, Countess Rutherford, had died in childbirth  when Lex was three. The second child, Julian, had followed just a few days later. The following year, however, there had been a considerable scandal when a Mistress Dunleavy, widow of her  estate, declared her pregnancy with the bereaved Duke’s child. Lucas had never quite understood how she had managed it, but Rachel Dunleavy must have had certain proofs of an irrefutable nature, for Lionel had married her shortly before  Lucas’ birth, and for ten years, Lucas had  grown up alongside Lex, his adored elder brother. Although his mother had never been very  interested in Lucas, seeing him merely as means to an end, he had never doubted Lex’s affection for him. It was Lex who took her place, offering companionship and care, solace and guidance, even if only into the kind of mischief appropriate to two high-spirited boys. In return, Lucas alone got to see the true Lex, wilful and passionate, alert and vivid in personality as his coppery red hair was vivid in colour.

In public, and even before the servants, Lex was the perfect heir. He was highly intelligent and diligent, requiring a frequent change of tutors as his own knowledge and understanding outstripped that of those employed to teach him. Lionel refused to send his son to public school; Lex had been prone to respiratory troubles as a child. He was not, however, deprived of the company of his peers; they and their parents were regularly invited to the palatial seat of the Duke, often for prolonged stays, and Lionel was certainly not one to ignore the value of good relations with influential persons. 

Lex had fought the restrictions of his childhood ailments single-mindedly, becoming an accomplished rider at an early age, and displaying a precocious talent for both swordplay and marksmanship. Before his elders, he was usually silent, unless addressed directly, but listened attentively to their conversation. He had beautiful manners, but maintained his distance with social inferiors. All of this pleased his father, who would boast of what a proper education could do for a man, and paraded Lex like a prized possession, or a thoroughbred stallion, on all occasions. It had been rumoured that Lionel even aspired to one of the minor royal princesses as a bride for his heir, when the time was right. 

Only once, in all those years Lucas resided on the Dorset estate, could he ever recall Lex contradicting his father about anything. Lionel had reprimanded him for being overly polite to the servants, for thanking them for their work, instead of taking it as his due. The boy, not quite twelve, had looked up at his father with those disconcerting, clear, grey-blue eyes and  said quietly, “Incivility is nothing more than a sign  of poor breeding, Father. Politeness costs nothing. Good manners are the mark of a gentleman, and insults, like compliments, need to be judiciously  weighed in order to have either purpose or merit.” 

Lionel had stared at him, taken aback by the cool tones, but then had laughed heartily,  reaching down to ruffle Lex’s red hair. 

“Ha! Well, it’s true times are changing. I won’t say you’re wrong, boy, and I won’t say you’re right. They seem quick enough to do as you ask, but don’t let me catch you mollycoddling them, that does neither them nor you any good, either.” 

Lex had merely inclined his head silently. Lucas was sure that only he had noticed how  Lex shrank from his father’s touch. 

Lucas’s world had been turned topsy-turvy  when he was ten. His mother Rachel had been careless. Whatever the evidence she had had against Lionel Luthor, it had obviously outlived its usefulness, whereas he, on the other hand, had fresh and indisputable proof of several indiscretions of hers, both before and after her marriage to him. He had divorced her  –  a messy process, to be sure, but he was the rich and influential Duke of Lanchester, whereas  she was merely an insignificant Yorkshire squire’s daughter, and widow of a Cit, by whom she  had come into enough money to move in the circles that had brought her into contact with Lanchester. At the same time as the divorce was pronounced, however, he also disowned Lucas as his son, claiming that under the circumstances, he had no real evidence that the boy  was indeed his own flesh and blood. In order to facilitate the divorce, Lionel had agreed to pay  a small stipend to his former wife, and to pay for Lucas’ education, but their circumstances  were nevertheless extremely straightened in the years that followed. None of this had bothered Lucas much, as he had always detested his father. What had hurt, however, was that he had no contact anymore with Lex, not even so much as the occasional letter. He suspected Lex had been forbidden to write, but it did not soften the blow very much. The only news he had of his half-brother was the gossip printed in the gazettes.

Then, four years later, when Lex had turned eighteen, things had changed with a vengeance. At eighteen, Lex had  entered into his mother’s inheritance. While Lucas  believed, from what he had heard, that Lionel had genuinely cared for Lillian Rutherford, at least in the early  years of their marriage, the fact that she had been one of the country’s  wealthiest heiresses had certainly not counted against his desire to wed her. Much of that property had automatically reverted to Lex on his eighteenth birthday as a result of the marriage settlement. As an additional coming-of-age present, Lionel had gifted his son with certain other pieces of property, ensuring that the new Marquis of Rutherford should be able to lead an independent existence, in preparation for when he would inherit the Lanchester title and estates in due course. 

Lionel had not anticipated the extent to which Lex would claim that independence. Violently  contrary to Lionel’s wishes, Lex promptly departed for London, reclaiming the elegant town house on St. James’ Square that had belonged to his mother’s family but had been let  out, as Lionel preferred Lanchester House on Carlton Gardens, nearer the  then Prince Regent’s  residence. Once in London, the first thing Lex had done was to purchase a commission in the -th Hussars and leave for the Continent forthwith, to join in the fight against the resurgent Napoleon Bonaparte. His flair had been conspicuous from the start, bringing him quickly to the attention of the Iron Duke himself, and by the time of the Battle of Waterloo, Lex had been on  Wellington’s personal staff, much favoured by the notoriously irascible commander. Lionel,  furious that his heir was risking himself in the front line of battle in this way, could only grind his teeth silently when he was complimented  on his son’s courageous comportment. 

The other thing Lex had done, just before leaving for the battlefields of Europe, was to get back in touch with Lucas. They had not seen each other then, communication had been by letter, but Lex had gifted Lucas with a small but prosperous holding, part of his own inheritance, in the Cotswolds. While Lucas was still under age, it would be managed  by Lex’s own financial  advisors  – now independent from those of the duchy’s estate –  and he had managed to frame  things so that Lucas’ mother could not lay claim to it. Once Lucas turned eighteen, it would be  his outright, and he could choose to do as he willed with it. In the meantime, it provided Lucas with a regular and respectable income, something in the order of £800 per annum. Not a fortune, certainly, but by most standards an agreeable competence. To Lucas, at that time, however, more than the possibility of the financial security it offered, it was proof that Lex had not, after all, forgotten about him. Furthermore, this act, which was quite public, indicated clearly that Lex, at least, considered that Lucas was genuinely his half-brother, and not some  bastard foisted on Lionel by a scheming adventuress. It did wonders for Lucas’ social status.

After the Treaty of Vienna, and the final resolution of the Bonaparte problem, Lex had sold out of the army, and established himself in London, rapidly becoming the most sought-after bachelor in town. Not only was he the Lanchester heir, he had a sizeable personal fortune as Marquis of Rutherford which was growing by leaps and bounds, for Lex turned out to have a remarkable nose for business opportunities. Not for him the South Sea Bubbles and their ilk; his investments were made with an extraordinary degree of flair, from coffee in the Caribbean to timber in Russia, not to mention his interest in all the latest technological advancements, such as the proposed new railway line to be built between Darlington and Stockton. Lionel  made disparaging noises about rubbing shoulders with trade, but the fact remained that Lex’s  investments, even in two or three years, were making money hand over fist, and if things  continued in this vein, even the duchy’s substantial revenues would be a mere drop in the ocean of Lex’s possessions. From afar, Lucas watched this, and gloated shamelessly at how Lex  was prospering without any assistance (quite the contrary, in fact) from his parent. When Lex invited his now seventeen year-old half-brother to town for a spell, he leapt at the occasion with alacrity. 

With an introduction  to society under Lex’s wing, many were the doors now open to the  youth. Although Lucas had  reverted to his mother’s name, few questioned his status as Lex’s  half-brother, which gave him the  entrée  into circles that might otherwise have been closed to a simple provincial gentleman of dubious parentage. Lionel, while continuing to refuse to acknowledge  any association, did not deign to bestir himself more actively to block Lucas’ progress. This was probably because it was clear enough that Lucas was making no claims in any hereditary sense on the Lanchester estate or titles. Lex, on the other hand, tended to show considerable annoyance towards those who cast aspersions on Lucas, and most people preferred Lionel’s passive discontent to Lex’s active displeasure. Lucas, after all, was hardly the only ‘indiscretion’ circulating in the  ton.  With Lex as his model, and apart from a little wildness in his first year or so in town, Lucas was generally held to be a decent sort of fellow.

Lucas supplemented his modest income by gaming, something he actually enjoyed for its own sake. After some early scares, he had developed a more serious attitude towards the cards, and other forms of gambling did not interest him particularly. Lex himself was a formidable gambler, but it was not an addiction, though it might sometimes appear as such. As with his business interests, he gambled exceedingly shrewdly, and never idly. Lucas learned some thing of Lex’s way with cards, proving an apt pupil, and soon he was able to augment his  income in a discreet fashion, enough to make life comfortable for himself without acquiring a damaging reputation as a hardened gamester. There had been a point when he had been tempted to cheat, to make absolutely sure of his gains, but Lex had dissuaded him quite forcibly from such foolishness. 

Lex, on the other hand, deprived of the stimulus of war, not able or inclined to keep fully occupied with estate management, and not in a position to take a seat in the House of Lords while his father was still alive, had become both renowned and, to some extent, even a little feared. His wealth grew further, increased by wagers of breathtaking audacity. His physical  courage was respected even as his apparent foolhardiness was reproved. He was, naturally, welcomed everywhere, while upright mamas were torn between warning their daughters away from the dashing young Marquis, and encouraging them to attract his attention with a view to matrimony. He  was a familiar figure both at the city’s foremost sporting salons, and its gaming  hells, where he cut a bold figure, always beautifully dressed in the best of discreet good taste, poised and elegant, without being dandified. He did not follow fashions, he led them, but with a casual, amused disregard for those who too slavishly aped his example. However much they may have reproved his gaming, older men admired his business acumen and hard common sense. Younger men longed to emulate his dress sense, his prowess as a sportsman and his successes with both sexes, and the eyes of both men and women followed his stylish figure hungrily wherever he went.

He was also known for a temper as flamboyant as his red hair, quick to flare and quick to die, unless the other party was foolish enough to provoke him further, in which case he had little compunction in challenging or accepting challenges to a duel. He never lost. As he had pointed out to Lucas, he never killed, either, but he had had to leave the country rather precipitously on several occasions when the initial outcome of the duel  –  that is, whether his opponent would live or die  –  had not been immediately apparent at the time. It would seem, Lucas thought amusedly, that he was just as capable of irritating the wrong people in Paris as he was in London, though no doubt the powerful Condé family would forgive the charismatic young English lord soon enough, especially if their importunate relative made a quick recovery. 

“So, the prodigal returns to the fold,” Lex was saying, “and makes his way hot-foot  to your table to hear all the news from the best possible source. For of that, dear brother, I am sure, since you always know the latest  _on-dits_.” 

Lucas ignored the mild jibe. It was true he was more than partial to gossip, though with Lex he was careful to distinguish between idle rumour, mere observation, and true fact. Lex disliked being induced into error, and had ways of making his displeasure felt. He had made it clear from the moment relations were re-established between them that he was not going to be bailing his brother out of every scrape automatically, and that Lucas had best learn to fend for himself. He was, however, liberal with his patronage, and it was essential to Lucas, who  would otherwise have found himself at the mercy of Lanchester’s disapproval. Withdrawal of  that patronage, even for the briefest of periods, tended to have very detrimental effects on  Lucas’ prospects. 

Lucas therefore regaled his sibling with all the news of the city and court that Lex had missed over the last six months. 

“What of the divine Miss Lang,” Lex asked, with a crooked smile. “Is her triumph this  Season as assured as it was the  last?” 

Miss Lang had emerged on the scene the previous year as the Toast of the Town, an exquisite young lady of, then, seventeen years. Though unfashionably dark, she was nevertheless incontestably the loveliest debutante of that year and, indeed, of the last four or five years, so all agreed. She was a connection of the Luthors, in fact, so Lex had done his cousinly duty by procuring her the all-important Almack vouchers, and being seen to stand up with her once or twice at various balls and soirées. She had actually made a set at him, in her mild way. Lex  came to the rapid conclusion this had been more an idea of her aunt’s than her own, and as this  entertained him more than it had annoyed him, he had been gracious enough when disabusing her of any notions she might have had of matrimony with him. They therefore remained on amicable terms. Lex was also entertained by watching all the young bucks fawn at her dainty feet, though he was inclined to look askance when her wit was praised. In his opinion, she had all the wit of a dandelion, for all her pretty ways, and Lex had never had much time for cotton-heads.

“In terms of the Marriage Mart, yes, there’s little or no change amongst the young  ladies. More generally, however, that elegant nose has been put out of joint. There is a new  Beauty in Town.” At Lex’s questioning glance, he elaborated. “A young man by the name of  Kent. The child of some small landholder somewhere around the Lake District, I believe. Few  connections to speak of, and only a modest income, but he’s been well educated by someone up there, and he’s going to Oxford on a scholarship. Somewhere along the line, he appears to  have come across the Rosses of Grizedale, and become bosom-bows with their youngest, Peter.  At any rate, they’ve taken him under their wing, and it is thanks to them that he has appeared  in Town for the Season.  It was quite an appearance, believe me, I was there.” 

“Is he so very striking?” 

“Oh yes. Whatever that French sprig you were chasing may have looked like, I’ll wager you’ll forget him soon enough when you see young Mr. Kent.” 

“You know I never wear my heart on my sleeve.” 

Lucas grinned at him. “I’d still give my eye-teeth  to be there the first time you set eyes on him. I tell you, he fair took my breath away, and you know my inclinations that way are not  as strong as yours. He’s eighteen, taller than any man in London, beautifully set, proportions  like a Greek statue, black hair, eyes like the sea on a summer  morn, a mouth that’s a positive  invitation to lascivious thoughts, and a smile brighter than a thousand candles. A Vision, I assure  you.” 

“Well aware of it, no doubt?” 

“Not at all. Sweet manners and a sweeter disposition, by all account, and if he’s not as pure as the driven snow, then I’m a Chinaman.” 

Lex looked mocking. “How  boring!”

“What can I say? At any rate, he’s captured the fancy of pretty well everyone in town.   You should find the spectacle entertaining enough, knowing you. Swann, for example, is making an absolute cake of himself over the boy. Miss Lang, however, is making the best of her stolen glory and seems to be interested in attaching him herself. I will admit they make a most striking couple, though I doubt very much if anything could come of it. If nothing else, I imagine  Father would be quick enough to scotch any suggestions of a match.”

“Believe  me, Miss Lang has ambitions that go considerably beyond some nobody from Westmoreland, no matter how handsome. However, I fail to see where our father comes into  the picture.” 

“He is, after all, the head of the family, is he not?” 

“He can barely remember Miss Lang’s name from one week’s end to the next,” Lex  laughed.  “While I agree he’d nominally frown on such a match, I doubt he’d bestir himself to do anything about it, one way or another.” 

“He might in this case. Miss Lang’s is not the only nose to have been put out of joint.” 

Lex opened his eyes wide. “Father made a play for him?” 

“No,  no,  I doubt they’ve even been introduced.” Lucas looked a little wry. “However, had you returned home before Mr. Kent’s arrival in town, I might have added to my news that I suspected Father was looking for his third Duchess.” 

Lex was quick to add two and two together. “The object  of his attentions has found Mr.  Kent’s charms more attractive than Lanchester’s title and pocket-book?” When Lucas nodded, Lex grinned, more a baring of teeth than of genuine humour. “We may owe the young man a  small debt. Who was the unfortunate  elect?” 

“Miss Sullivan.” 

Lex sobered instantly. “Ah, Lucas....” Despite six months’ absence,  he was nonetheless aware that his brother had been taking a more than usual interest in the young lady under discussion. 

“No, no, it’s all right,” Lucas assured him wryly. “It’s not like I’d made a play myself, yet. Father certainly won’t put his luck to the touch there again, not after that kind of snub.  I doubt  she’ll get much joy of Mr. Kent, either. Although they appear to be on friendly terms, I would say his attitude towards her is far too brotherly to lead to anything more. Chloe’s no fool, she’ll realise she’s at an impasse soon enough, and maybe then I’ll have  a  better chance. I’ll be  quicker off the mark next time. Still, the net result is that at present the sight of Mr. Kent tends  to leave the old lion in a decidedly tetchy mood.” 

“I definitely must make his acquaintance. There’s nothing I like better than something  that irritates Father.”

“So I’ve noticed. I get my share of enjoyment out  of watching the two of you cross  swords,” the younger man admitted. “Tell me something, Lex. You still know him a great deal  better than I, after all. What are the chances that he developed an interest in Chloe merely because  I had done so?” 

“Better than fair, I imagine,” came the prompt response. “He couldn’t very well risk  giving her a slip on the shoulder, not after the business with your mother. It may have been  years ago, but no one has forgotten.” 

“Well, no, you’ve seen to that,” Lucas pointed out, amused. Lex’s recognition of him  ensured it. 

Lex ignored the comment. “If he dallies with a woman of good reputation, he has to be  serious about it, and he knows that. However, all other things being equal, I would not have thought Miss Sullivan  would have come to his attention as a potential bride. If you’ll excuse me being frank, she’s not highborn enough, not rich enough and not beautiful enough for him.  Therefore there must have been something else about her that drew his eye, and that, most  likely, was you.” 

Lucas frowned a little. “I thought you liked Chloe?” 

“I like her well enough,” Lex said mildly. “I certainly thought she was a good choice for you if that was the way your fancy turned. She’s suitably connected and will bring  a reasonable dowry, and she has brains, unlike nine-tenths of the currently eligible crop of young ladies. I  will say, however, that if the silly chit was foolish enough to find Father’s lures actually appealing, however briefly, then my estimation of her  has gone down several notches. I don’t care if  he is a duke, any young woman of sense should think twice and three times before getting  hitched to him. He made both our mothers’ lives a misery, and I doubt things would improve for any new duchess.” 

“There’s little denying his address, Lex. You have a good deal of it yourself.”

“I don’t take that as a compliment, Lucas,” came the dry response.

Lucas chuckled. “Life has been dull around here without you, Lex, I’m glad you’re back.” 


	2. In Which Acquaintance Is Struck in Dramatic Circumstances

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Fates entwine two lives

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ￼Disclaimer: Many of the characters used in this work of fan-fiction are the creation and property of DC Comics, Time/Warner and all relevant subsidiaries. No infringement of copyright is intended, and no income of any nature is being derived from its publication

Lex was to meet up with Mr. Kent sooner than he could have anticipated. 

If Lucas had been his first visit, on his return home, he was certainly not the last. From  Lucas’s breakfast table, Lex went to ride in the Park, thereby making his return widely  known, and accepted lunch and dinner invitations from friends for that day. In between the two, he went to the  salle  he frequented to spar a little, and after dinner, went to his club. All in all, he set foot in his home that day only to change clothes, and it was well nigh 4 a.m. before he was ready to return to his bed. 

He had sent his groom on home hours earlier, preferring to be alone in the small hours, so there was no other pair of eyes working for him as he tooled gently down the Embankment, mind only half on his horses, the other half on all the news he had received that day, and his burgeoning plans for the season. When the two footpads suddenly sprang up from the shrubbery, he was genuinely taken by surprise, and was unable to retain a hold on the reins. The surprise was only momentary. Even before his assailants could threaten him with a weapon, he had reached for the pair of pistols kept concealed in pockets to the side of the seat, and fired swiftly. One bullet landed squarely. The  other went wide, Lex’s aim fouled by the jolting  of the carriage, but the second footpad, the one who had taken the reins, was too terrified at the abrupt felling of his comrade, and took to his heels. 

Had Lex been on horseback, that would have been an end of it; he would have regained command of his mount, and been on his way after contacting the Runners. However, he was in his perch-phaeton, with a new pair of matched bays he had brought back from France. They were fine animals, but a little nervy, particularly after the long journey over from the Continent; having two gunshots fired at very close quarters was rather more than they were prepared for. They bolted, out of step, dragging the curricle in a chaotic fashion, and without the reins in his hands, there was little Lex could do to control them. He held his balance for a moment, then gripped the rim of the curricle with one hand, and reached out as far as possible to try to grasp the loose reins. They had been taken from him high up, over the foot guard, and still lay just within his grasp, as long as he could catch them before the jerky movements of the pair could dislodge them completely. Abruptly, though, for some reason Lex could never fathom, the pair took a turn onto the bridge, too tight and too fast, and the phaeton struck the kerb. The left wheel cracked under the impact, tipping the curricle over. His grip on the rim of the carriage was only single-handed, and Lex went flying, pitched forward, over the parapet and into the dark waters of the Thames. 

Shocked by the impact, he almost inhaled a lungful of water before fully realising what had happened, and then his greatcoat became instantly waterlogged, dragging him downwards, even as the slow, strong current of the river pulled him along, too. He struggled feebly for what  felt like an eternity, losing strength with every second, unable to unfasten the clasp of his coat to relieve him of that burden at least. He was just about ready to give up, succumbing to the depths, when he felt strong arms around him, and an irresistible upwards tug. He did not try to fight that, either, but it was only when he found himself on the bank, half on his side, coughing  water painfully from his lungs, that he realised someone had risked the river’s heavy  pull to drag him from its embrace. One arm held his waist, supporting him still, and he was aware, despite his waterlogged chill, of a great warmth behind him, another body radiating heat to an extraordinary degree.

“What...” he croaked, but there was  still too much water, and he retched violently. 

A broad hand rubbed comfortingly between his shoulder blades. “Rest easy,” came a soft, earnest voice. “You’re safe now. Just breathe; not too deep, slow and steady.” 

His greatcoat was pulled from his shoulders; his rescuer had found the clasp and undone it, and Lex breathed easier without that heavy weight of sodden wool around him. He coughed  and retched a moment more, then, with an exhausted sigh, relaxed back against his rescuer’s  warm body. The comforting hand on his back did not cease its soothing moments, until both heard a shrill whistle nearby. 

“The Runners,” the stranger said, with a note of relief. “Thank God for that!” He moved  away, standing up, Lex guessed, and a moment later, there was a shout from above him.  “Down here!” 

His spasms calmed, Lex levered himself up a little from the grassy bank, to see a man standing over him, waving to figures scurrying about on the bridge. 

“Down here!” the stranger shouted again. Within minutes,  there was a scuffle of steps, and more hands reached down to help Lex to his feet and up the bank to the road. Some sharp commands were barked out, and a couple of minutes later, he was bundled in somewhat scratchy, but blessedly warm blankets. It was April, and though the days were turning softer, the nights were still very fresh, and a dip in the Thames was never advisable at any time. Blearily, he looked around, and saw the other man, very tall, also being wrapped in blankets. 

The regular patrol of Bow Street Runners had heard the shots and hastened to investigate, calling up reinforcements from adjoining streets by their whistles. Lex vaguely heard his rescuer say that he had heard the shots, but not seen an attack. He had, however, seen a carriage capsize and catapult its driver into the river, and had jumped in to rescue the unfortunate man. After a moment, Lex was ready to fill in the gaps, giving his identity at the same time, which brought him a considerable degree of deference. 

“Aye, m’lord,” the senior officer present was telling him, his expression sour, “it’s a new gang running out o’ Blackfriars. That’s why we’ve doubled the patrols both sides of the river this last couple of months, but they’re bold beggars, no doubt about that. Might set ‘em back a  bit, your marksmanship, m’lord,” he added, with a note of relish. “Not used to folks so quick to  defend  ‘emselves.”

“I’m only sorry I didn’t get both,” Lex said dryly. “What of my phaeton and pair?” 

“The coach is badly damaged, m’lord, you’ll need a wheelwright at the very least. We have the horses safe.” 

“Good. If you’d be kind enough to find a hansom to take me home, we can attach the horses to run alongside. I’ll send someone out for the curricle as soon as possible.” 

“Very good, m’lord.” 

Lex turned to the stranger who had dragged him from the river. The light was still dim, and the street lamps did not cast their glow far, so he could not make out much in the way of detail, just that the man was several inches taller than Lex himself, broad-shouldered and slim, and seemed very young. 

“Sir,” he addressed the stranger, “I owe you a considerable debt of gratitude. My home  is not far. I beg you will allow me to offer you hospitality for the next few hours, at least until  we can send someone around to your residence for a change of clothes for you. I’d offer you some of my own, but I’m afraid that wouldn’t serve at all,” he added, with a note of self- deprecating humour, as he looked the tall figure up and down. 

The other made a small gesture back down-river.  “I’m staying quite close by, in Adam Street...” he began. 

“Pray do not disoblige me on this. I would make acquaintance with my rescuer.” 

“I – Thank you, sir, it is most kind of you,” he accepted after a brief  hesitation, ducking his head shyly. 

The hansom had been summoned, and Lex gestured towards it. A few minutes later,  they were descending again in front of Lex’s town house, while the cab driver descended and attached Lex’s bays to the railing. The night  porter, eyes wide at the dishevelled state of his master and his companion, had the door open for them. 

“Get Simmons and my valet,” Lex commanded crisply as they entered the house. “Send  them to me in the library, and then light the fire there. As you can see, we are a trifle damp.  And get the ostler to see to the horses.” 

Lex himself took a taper from one of the hall lights, and nursed it into the library where he began to light the candles. The other man had followed him, a little hapless, and Lex was aware of this. When he had a couple of branches lit, he extinguished the taper, tossing the spill  lightly in the fireplace, and turned towards his guest, with his most charming smile.

“Forgive me, but I think we are both anxious to get warm and comfortable again.” 

As he spoke, he took in the appearance of his guest, and his breath almost failed him. Even wet and bedraggled, the boy was quite entrancing. Damp cloth clung to a powerful chest and broad shoulders, tapered waist and strong thighs. Black hair was already drying out into loose waves, with just a hint of natural curl. Luminous, aquamarine eyes framed with sooty lashes watched him with a hesitant look in them, and the full, soft lips were moist, and parted a little, almost inviting. 

Lex took a bow at a venture. There could not possibly be two men in London matching  Lucas’ description so closely. “Mr. Kent, is it not?” 

His surprise was unfeigned. “You have me at a disadvantage, sir. I don’t believe we’ve met before?” 

“No, we haven’t.” Lex chose not to explain how he had come to identify the other man, but came forward, hand outstretched. “Alexander Luthor.” 

Recognition dawned, as Kent shook the proffered hand. “You’re the Marquis of Rutherford.” 

“Perhaps I am the one  who should be wondering how  –  or rather, what  – you’ve heard of me,” Lex smiled obliquely, but turned away as the door opened to admit three men. 

One was the footman who had opened the door to them. Of the two others, one was a tall, fair-haired, relatively young man, a trifle owlish looking at this early hour, while the second was much older, wiry and dark, with an olivine complexion that suggested Mediterranean origins. The footman moved directly to the fireplace and began making up the fire; he would finish illuminating the room once that task was done. 

“Good. Raffaele, take Mr. Kent upstairs to the main guest bedroom, help him dry off  properly, and see if you can find something warm for him to wear for the moment. Then see what you can do about  his clothing. Simmons, later on, you’ll send someone round to the Ross’s in Adam Street, with a note from Mr. Kent asking for fresh clothing. Oh, and someone needs to take these blankets back to the Millbank Runners’ station. Meanwhile, let’s have  some food  –  bread and cheese will do fine for the moment  – and a bottle of claret.” He turned back to his young guest, indicating the older of the two servants. “Please go with Raffaele, he’s my valet, he’ll see to it that you’re comfortable, and we can reconvene  here in about twenty minutes.” 

Kent nodded silently, clearly shy again, and followed the manservant from the room. After another couple of words to the major-domo, Lex went to his own rooms, and began to 

strip out of his damp clothing with relief. The chill of the water was seeping uncomfortably into his bones, and he would be glad of dry clothes, the warmth of a fire and a glass or two of good wine. He had changed into a fresh shirt and breeches, and was towelling the last of the dampness from his hair, when there was a tap at his door, and Raffaele entered. 

“Did you find something for him?” Lex asked.

“I trust his lordship has no objections,” the manservant said in his heavy accent, “but I  thought the  kaftan  Prince Lugansky sent last year  might serve.”

“Good idea. It was certainly far too big for me.” 

“It is a little short for Mr. Kent, but broad enough across the shoulders. I also found that  pair of red leather  babouches.” 

Lex shot him a slightly amused look. “He must look rather exotic, no?” 

Raffaele permitted himself a small smile. “If his lordship will pardon the reflection, the young man does have a certain air.” 

Lex made a faint sound of agreement, tying back his hair loosely with a strip of velvet  ribbon. “The amethyst robe, please, Raffaele.” 

The manservant drew a rich, amethyst-coloured, quilted silk housecoat from the wardrobe and held it up for his master. As Lex shrugged into it, he asked, “Are his clothes recoverable?” 

Raffaele shook his head dubiously. “The  shirt and undergarments, probably, but as for  the rest? I doubt it very much, my lord. Nor the boots, neither.” 

“Do what you can, but take their measurements while you’re at it. Later today, you’ll go to Weston’s and order two full sets of day wear –  everything, you understand, cravats, small-clothes, shirts, everything  – to be finished urgently. Also Hoby’s, for boots. Everything to be delivered to Mr. Kent’s lodgings as soon as possible.” 

“Yes, my lord. Might I enquire what his lordship and the  young gentleman were doing  to return home in such a state?” he added diffidently. 

“I took a ducking, and Mr. Kent fished me out of the river.” 

“Very good, my lord,” Raffaele said impassively. 

Lex suppressed a smile as he left his bedroom. Raffaele was not always so stoic. He was a Corsican, with all the legendary volatility of his race, and there were times when he was a  good deal more vocal in his opinions. It was probably the presence of a stranger not too far away that was keeping the manservant from voicing exactly what he thought of his master taking early morning dips fully dressed. 


	3. In Which There Is An Intimate Supper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our two young heroes make better acquaintance over a fire-lit supper, and find it easy to sympathise.

Lex usually moved very silently, an old habit learnt in childhood. It was this that permitted him to re-enter his library without his guest being immediately aware of his presence, absorbed as he was in the contents of Lex’s bookshelves. It was just as well, Lex reflected to himself, because for the second time that night, he found his breath taken away at the sight before him. 

Raffaele had been right; the robe Kent was wearing was a little short, both at the ankles and in the sleeves, but was otherwise a reasonable fit. However, it was an interior robe meant to be worn over at least a shirt and breeches. Seeing how the soft, cashmere wool clung to the broad shoulders and to the smooth line of hip and thigh as the young man moved, Lex was almost sure he did not have a stitch on beneath it, and Lex would not have been human not to have been moved by the vision before him. The thought of acres of bare, golden flesh so close, under nothing other than that fine drapery of wool and fur, was enough to make Lex’s mouth water and his breeches to tighten uncomfortably over his loins. 

Nor was it merely the beautiful face, and the suggestion of a glorious body that was so attractive; Lex was watching Kent browse through his library, expression intent with curiosity, large hands reaching up from time to time to take a book down to examine it. Those hands, wide and big-boned as they were, handled Lex’s precious books so delicately, with such care and gentleness that Lex could only wonder what such a tender touch would feel like on a lover’s body. 

Lex drew a deep, silent breath, willed his unruly body back under his control, and let the library door close fully behind him with a sharp snick. His guest turned immediately towards him, with a tentative smile that turned quickly into a full-blown one.  _A thousand candles indeed, Lucas_ , Lex acknowledged the accuracy of his brother’s description.

Out loud,  he said, “I see my man managed to find something for you after all,” and smiled evenly. 

A little to his surprise, Kent blushed slightly. 

“Yes, thank you. It’s – a most unusual garment.” 

Lex used the opening to survey him without reserve. It was true the robe was particularly fine. The wool, dyed a deep indigo, was trimmed with a thick border of luxurious sable fur, while the inner edge of the fur was bordered by a fantastic decoration of tendrils and leaves richly embroidered in silver bullion and varying shades of lilac thread. Silver thread was worked across the shoulder seams and down the arms to the cuffs, while the robe was held shut in front by heavy, silver-shot lilac frogs.

“It’s a Russian _kaftan_ ,” Lex explained. “Something like a housecoat. It was meant as a gift to me. I gave hospitality to the son of one of my Russian business partners, who was on the Grand Tour. However, as you can see, my friend’s tailors considerably overestimated my girth, no doubt too accustomed to their own master’s more generous proportions,” he added humorously.

“It’s very beautiful. I’ve never felt such wool of such quality. You have regular dealings  with Russia? Is that the strange-looking  language in some of your books?” 

“Ah, you saw that?”

“I thought for a moment it was Greek, but found I couldn’t read it.” 

“Because you read Greek?” Lex asked, surprised.  


“Yes, sir,”  he answered simply.  


Well, that was certainly interesting. 

“You’re right to make the comparison. It’s more or less derived  from Greek. The man who brought literacy, and Christianity, to Russia was a Greek. They share the same church, too,  at least nominally. However, by now, in all things, it’s a largely superficial resemblance. Russia’s a very interesting  place, though, a fascinating mix of influences. Their literature, for example  –  I mean Russian literature actually written in Russian  –  is a comparatively recent  thing. I’d say, less than a century old.” 

Kent’s eyes, wide with wonder and  curiosity, were a sight to  behold. “Truly? How can that be?” 

“It’s a complicated story. Do you read French at all?” 

“Passably.” 

“Good.” He headed for a specific section of his library and pulled down a couple of tomes. “The translation is a little behind yet. The original Russian is up to Volume 9, but the French is only at Volume 4. Still, I think you’ll find this interesting. It’s the first really erudite history of the country, Karamzin’s _History of the Russian State_. A fascinating read, I assure you, nothing dry or dusty about it at all.”

He crossed the room, and held out the volumes. 

“You – you wish to lend me these books?” Kent asked, stammering a little in surprise. 

“Certainly. As I said, I think you’ll find it worthy of note.” 

“I –  but  –  you hardly  know me...” 

“I might hesitate if we were talking about my favourite horse, I grant you, but they’re just books, Kent.” 

Kent smiled shyly, taking this as the teasing it was clearly meant to be, and cast an expressive glance around the well-furnished library.  “Judging from what I see, I might think  that you hold books in as much esteem as the finest horseflesh,”  he returned, in a similar tone. 

Lex grinned swiftly. So he was observant, too.  “You  would be right, more or less. Still,  you don’t look like the careless sort to me.” He admitted something he had not intended to. “I  entered a few moments before you noticed me, and saw you browsing. You treat them very  gently. I think I can trust you with a couple of them.” 

Kent took the books from him, handling them as carefully as Lex had noticed earlier, and  nodding a little. “I love books. I’ll take good care of them. Thank you,  sir;  it’s very kind of you.” 

There was a tap at the library door, and it opened to admit Simmons and a couple of young footmen, bearing folding tables and linen, a tray with china, silverware and glasses, and another tray with a tempting array of cheese, biscuits, relishes and fresh fruit, as well as a bottle of wine. Lex gestured them towards the hearth, but then touched Kent’s  arm lightly, and  pointed to an elegant desk in one corner. 

“It would be as well if you were to write that note to your hosts, for my man to take round later this morning. You’ll find all you need in the desk there. Don’t forget to include your  directions.” 

The note was quickly penned, and handed to Simmons, while the servants set up the two tables contiguously, draping the linen over both to form a single unit. Two places were set, and high-backed chairs placed in front of them, and then the servants withdrew. Lex gestured to the impromptu supper table, indicating his guest should take the seat to the right. He poured out the wine himself. 

“It’s more fashionable to take burgundy with cheeses,” he said conversationally, “but in my opinion, that’s a mistake with the sharper, hard cheeses, such as our own cheddars, or Italian Parmesan, or _tomme_ from the Savoie. As I tend to prefer those types in any case, I equally favour the lighter clarets to drink with them. Not that burgundy doesn’t have its place, with a good Brie, for example, or the rich, creamy, pungent cheeses of the Burgundy region. Still, such a combination can be a little indigestible, particularly at unreasonably early hours of the morning like this!”

“I’m afraid you’ll find me lamentably ignorant concerning matters of food and drink,” Kent said shyly. “I just tend to eat whatever’s put in front of me, and not ask too many questions about the whys and wherefores.” 

“Not asking questions is the besetting sin of our times,” Lex said,  mock-sternly.  “For an  era that is seeing so many extraordinary developments and advancements, the sheer mental  inertia of my peer group positively depresses me.” 

“You’re referring to the  ton?”  he smiled a little. “You’re very hard on them, sir.” 

“Have you been in Society three weeks without perceiving the same?” Lex challenged. 

“Who am I to judge?” 

“A scholar, from what I’ve heard tonight, and one interested in expanding his horizons, judging from your own questions so far. If you’re not already  aware of it, permit me to tell you  that’s quite unusual.” 

“I try not to let it show too much.” His smile had a touch of mischief. “I’ve been told  repeatedly  that I shouldn’t let any degree of erudition show. I apologise for letting the mask  slip.” 

“No doubt your patrons are right, generally speaking. However, we’re not in Society at  this moment, and I entreat you to show no such restraint in your dealings with me. The company of a well-educated and, I suspect, well-read man makes a refreshing  change.” 

“It’s very kind of you, sir...” Kent began, but Lex cut him short. 

“It’s not kind at all. In fact, I’m being quite odiously selfish. I’ve been back home less  than forty-eight hours, and am already forcibly reminded of just how tedious I find three-quarters of my usual social set. A prime collection of muttonheads, not to put too fine a point on it. By contrast, an eighteen-year old Ganymede, pluck to the backbone  –  witness your rescue of a complete stranger from the watery embrace of the Thames  –  and who can read  French and Greek, is someone in whom I find I’m prodigiously interested. So, if you please, stop blushing,” this was said with a wicked smile, “forget the social niceties, and let us enjoy a  little intelligent conversation. If you have  questions, ask them. If I don’t wish to answer, I won’t.” 

“You’re very forthright, sir,” he said, laughing a little. 

“I usually am; you’ll learn that about me,” Lex replied calmly, offering his guest the  basket of savoury biscuits. 

“Well then, if it’s questions you want –  where on earth do you find ripe strawberries at  this season?” Kent asked with a smile, helping himself from the dish of peppered strawberries  with evident relish. 

“Ah, yes, you hail from the distant North, do you not?” Lex sighed. “We have a little  thing in these southern counties  called greenhouses, you know?” 

He  chuckled. “Not the  distant  North, if you please. Especially not considering you’ve travelled to Russia.” He looked a little wistful, of a sudden. “How I envy you that.” 

“Russia?” 

“Travel. Until this month, I’d barely gone further than Carlisle in one direction, and Wetherby in the other. You must have done the Grand Tour, quite aside from anything else.” 

Lex looked amused. “After a fashion, yes, but not  in the sense you mean. My Grand  Tour was done as a junior subaltern on Wellington’s staff, mostly in the aftermath of our victory  at Waterloo. I will grant you I got to see a good deal of Europe; extensive areas of France, the Low Countries, Austria, Italy, Spain.... However, seeing it from a military point of view is not quite the same thing as trailing around with a long-suffering tutor in tow. The occupation  armies did so much damage,” he added, rather more seriously. “I can’t say ours were any  better  than the French.” 

“I thought pilfering was severely punished?” 

“It was –  when we could put our hands on the culprits.  It’s impossible to police thousands of men efficiently,  though. How can you tell what’s missing from private estates, when  the owners  are either dead or imprisoned or hundreds of miles away? It’s worse when even  the officers see no harm in helping themselves to a little keepsake or two. I saw too much of that kind of thing, although, in the final analysis, theft is perhaps marginally better than vandalism. There’s a town in northern  Spain  – Burgos...” 

Kent nodded. “Ancient royal capital of Castile and Leon.” 

“Yes. A few miles outside of town, there’s an old charterhouse, where the parents of  Isabella of Castile were buried.  The tomb’s an extraordinary thing, a magnificent alabaster sculpture, and it’s intact, thank God, even though the charterhouse was used as quarters for some of Napoleon’s troops during the Peninsular War. However, there’s a great, carved wood  retable as well.  If you look at it closely, you’ll see little traces of gold here and there. I was told  that the altarpiece was once decorated all over with gold leaf, and that the leaf had been made from the very first shipments Christopher Columbus had sent back to Spain from the Americas. Can you imagine it? Can you imagine the sense of  history  in that fine covering of gold?”

“I take it the French soldiers stripped the altar?” Kent asked, with a rueful smile.

“Of course. All they saw was that it was gold. I’ve no doubt our own soldiers would  have done the same thing. The ordinary man has no sense of history, and no sense of  –  of the world, of everything else  that is out there, beyond his own home and hearth.” 

“Well, and why should he? Home and hearth make enough demands on most people.” 

“You cannot be serious! What are we without our history? Just aimless, crawling things....” 

The conversation was launched. They ate their way through the plateful of cheese, through the strawberries and cherries, through the savoury biscuits and soft bread, and drank the bottle of wine. Lex drank the majority of it  –  it was not his intention to get the boy even remotely foxed  –  but neither was the worse for the glasses of light ruby liquid. They went from talking  of the war to the classics, from the classics to Lex’s travel in other lands, from Russia to  superstitions and alternative beliefs, from paganism to painting. 

Lex could not remember the last time he had been able to have this kind of free-flowing conversation with another man, and it was clear that Kent was also enjoying both the conversation and the company. Both had quite forgotten the passage of time, until Simmons knocked at the door again, to inform his master that it was past nine in the morning, and the footman had  returned from the Ross’s with Mr. Kent’s change of clothing. 

A little startled, Lex got to his feet to go to the windows and draw back the heavy drapes. Sure enough, it was broad daylight outside. He looked out regretfully. There had been something magical about the last few hours, and he was reluctant to let go of that sensation. He turned back to look at his companion. 

“I should get dressed and go,” Kent said quietly. “You’ve been most generous, but you must be tired now, I’ve kept you up all night.” 

He  raised an eyebrow. “We’ve kept each other up, surely?” 

“Ah – actually, I was out on an early morning stroll.” 

Lex  gave a shout of laughter. “At 4 a.m.! Good god, man, what kind of hours do you keep?” 

“Farm hours, still,” he smiled. “I’m used to getting up very early in the first place, and  London is so  noisy,”  he added mock-plaintively. 

Chuckling, Lex returned to stand by Kent’s chair and look down into his face. “Well,  Ganymede, you are an endless source of surprises.” 

“Why do you call me that?” he asked, blushing a little. It was not the first time Lex had  used that epithet. 

“You know your classics well enough,” Lex teased. 

“I don’t really see myself as anyone’s cupbearer,” came the dry retort. 

“That’s not the part I was thinking of.” He gave in to the longing that had been tugging  at him all through the night, and let light fingertips delicately trace the arc of one dark brow,  and the sweet curve of a cheek. “I was thinking of the youth so beautiful the  king of the gods  himself came down in the form of an eagle to steal him away.” 

Those perfect features turned up towards him, the clear skin delicately stained with a hot flush of colour, the bright, smiling eyes and the slightly parted, pink lips were too much,  finally, for Lex’s self-control.  He leant down and kissed that full, soft mouth, letting his fingers slide into the black locks. He was neither tentative nor demanding about it, but gentle and persuasive. He felt the moment of shock, then a kind of bewildered acquiescence, and for a moment he tasted the wine, and fruit, and a deeper, sweeter taste that he knew was Kent’s own flavour. 

However, he also tasted something else  –  neither fear nor panic, exactly, but a kind of anxiety that had no place in any seduction. Lex was fairly certain he could coax his beautiful young companion into intimacy with him, but he did not want to have to persuade, he wanted to be met halfway, and he was too skilled at reading the signs not to know that Kent was not ready for that, not just yet. He drew back, not too fast, letting a little reluctance show, and moved away a few steps. 

“Forgive me,” Lex said quietly, a little ruefully. “You’re  right;  it’s been a long day for me,  and when I get tired, my inhibitions sometimes slip. I beg your indulgence for my lapse in manners.”  In a brisker tone, he added, “Your clothing will have been laid out in the room you used earlier. Don’t concern yourself about your other garments, they’ll be returned to you as  soon as  my people have done whatever they can to restore them. If you will excuse me, I’ll retire, before I commit any more follies.” 

That last was said with a slightly crooked smile, and it was enough to put him somewhat back at ease. Indeed, Kent seemed perhaps a little sorry to see him go, but Lex knew when retreat was the best option, and headed towards the door.

“My household is yours to command. When you’re ready to return home, Simmons will  call my coach for you. Goodnight, or rather good-day, Ganymede.” 

He was also adept at exits. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ￼Disclaimer: Many of the characters used in this work of fan-fiction are the creation and property of DC Comics, Time/Warner and all relevant subsidiaries. No infringement of copyright is intended, and no income of any nature is being derived from its publication


	4. In Which the Luthor Munificence Becomes Apparent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clark reflects on an unexpected meeting, and the Marquis knows how to express his gratitude.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I originally prepped this document for zine format, and for PDF publication, all the letters (notably in Part 2) had their individual fonts, something which has, obviously, not been duplicable in the formatting available in this archive. I hope things will nevertheless be reasonably clear.

Dressed, Clark declined the offer of his lordship’s carriage to return home, and set off on  foot back to Adam Street, his thoughts in turmoil. 

It was not that he was wholly oblivious to the impact of his looks. He generally lived quietly, at home, but regular trips to Kendal had already shown him how heads turned at his passage. He had not been prepared for the level of interest he generated in London, however, and had spent a large part of his first week in town in a perpetual blush. Not only were there simply more people than he had ever seen before, they were far more blatant in their interest; there were also many more men ogling him frankly. Once he recovered from the initial shock, however, he took very little of it seriously. Few of these people, he realised, had any interest in him as an individual, they merely appreciated his appearance. Hardly any of the town belles or beaux had made any real attempt to get to know him. 

He did not lack for company. Peter and his older brothers were good friends, sincere ones, and through the older Ross boys Clark had met a few other young men of similar station who, if not exactly intimate friends, were decent enough companions. 

He was too shy to look to make many friends amongst the ladies, and he certainly was not prepared to form an attachment of any duration, not when he was about to go off to university for several years. He liked to oblige Mrs. Ross by at least appearing to take an interest, and let her introduce him to this or that young lady, with a view to a set of country dances now and then, but otherwise he was usually more at ease with other young men. 

There had been two notable exceptions to this. The first, much to just about  everyone’s  surprise, was the reigning Beauty, Miss Lang, who seemed to show him an uncommon degree of favour, to the annoyance of her usual court. The first few times, when she had singled him out, he had been shamefully tongue-tied, and had even embarrassed himself thoroughly by his clumsiness around her. He felt like an overgrown clod by her side, and finally, completely nonplussed as to her friendly attitude, he had point blank asked her why she chose to show him any signs of favour at all. He knew perfectly well he was not a suitable prospect for her, nor, indeed, did he believe she felt anything more for him than an amiable kindness. 

“Will it make you feel more at ease if I tell you?” she had countered his question  obliquely. 

He was a little taken  aback, but then nodded, a little helplessly. “Well, yes, I think so.” 

The sloe eyes turned up to his had an amused glint in them. “Very well. It’s tactics, Mr. Kent. It wouldn’t do at all for me to snub you, you see.”

“No, Miss Lang, I don’t see at all,” he replied frankly. “Apart from it not being fair, of course, because I don’t see what I might ever have done to  cause  you to snub me.” 

She gave a ripple of laughter. “Dear sir, how can you say that? Have you no idea how  dispiriting it was for  me that after only one Season, I was already being outshone?” 

“Out – !” He went scarlet. 

“Quite outshone. However, if it appears that we are on fair terms, then at least I gain the benefit of being thought gracious in sharing the honours.” She laid  her hand lightly on his  sleeve, with a little smile. “Having become better acquainted  with you, I can honestly say that it has been no hardship at all. If you would but consent to be a little more at ease, you can be very pleasing  company indeed.” 

“Oh. Ah, thank you. I think,” he added dubiously. 

“Of course,” she added, in a judicious tone, though her eyes danced, “it doesn’t hurt  that we look very well together.” 

“It’s all just a battle plan, then?” he asked, a little bemused. 

“So it is for all of us on the catch for the right husband,” she confirmed, just a shade  ruefully.  “I do know that you’re not looking for a wife as yet –  and if you were, I would not be the one  –  but it can be agreeable for a lady to have the occasional company of a personable gentleman who has no expectations  of her.” 

“I suppose I can understand that.  Thank you for being so forthright with me. I do like  plain speaking better, usually.” 

“If this means you won’t stand on my hem again when we dance, I shall consider  it well  worth the risk,” she returned solemnly. 

“On the other hand, it was most unkind of you to remind me of that!” he protested, and  they both laughed. 

From that point on, Clark had indeed been a good deal more at ease with Miss Lang, and they were comfortable companions now. 

His other female friendship was at a rather more sensitive stage. When he had first been introduced to Chloe Sullivan, he had liked her high-spirited ways and her forthright talk from the outset. Finding her rather better informed than many of her peers, as well as more willing to allow her interest in current affairs and such like to show, he had welcomed her company. She was certainly very different from the elegantly languid Miss Lang. 

He had been foolish, however, or perhaps just too naïve, not to realise that she was starting to feel a good deal more than friendship for him, and it had taken a firm nudge from his friend Pete to enlighten him. Since then, he had been much more circumspect in their encounters, and sincerely hoped that her infatuation was fading, leaving only the friendship, for he still enjoyed their talks, and her sharp, unsentimental outlook on life. 

Apart from this tiny handful of people, however, generally Clark was aware that opinions in society were made on a very superficial basis, and that most of those he met, particularly in the higher strata, were not really interested in who he was, or anything he had to say. If he was being honest, from what he had seen so far, he was not that interested in getting to know them, either, judging most as pleasantly lightweight at best, and unpardonably ignorant at worst. He certainly had little difficulty in turning aside invitations of a more carnal nature, the predatory men and women who sought his favours arousing no sense of attraction in him. 

That was, until this night. 

He had heard of the Marquis of Rutherford, of course. Even in his absence from town,  the young nobleman was of those whose names were ever on Society’s lips. Clark had gained  a slightly confusing impression of a young rakehell irresistible to either sex, possessed either of  the devil’s own luck, or else an extraordinary gift of prescience when it came to matters finan cial, but also possessed of a seemingly insatiable desire to put an end to the days of any number of his fellow men, judging from the list of duels attributed to him. Once, idly, Clark had tried to put together a calendar of these duels, and promptly realised that there was a degree of exaggeration implicit in the tales he had heard. Nevertheless, his lordship did appear to have a certain streak of bloodthirstiness in his make-up. 

Clark had had no idea of whom he was rescuing that night, naturally enough. Once out of the river, and talking to the Runners, it had been very clear from their obsequious attitude that the stranger was a member of the ton, and high-ranking at that. There was, too, that note of command in the voice that indicated one bred to it. Clark had meant to return straight home; instead he found himself in a coach on the way to an unknown house at an unknown location with an unknown man. For somebody who was usually rather cautious, it was most unlike Clark, and he could only attribute it to the other man’s manner. He had certainly been polite enough, but there was just that hint that he would not be happy at a negative response. 

In his home, Rutherford took on a new dimension. At first, bedraggled from his involuntary ducking, he had hardly presented the most striking of figures, but a little later, dry and freshly clothed, he made quite a different impact. His presence, his grace, the ease of his manner, the slim, straight body in a quilted brocade robe of a striking purple shade, the coppery red hair carelessly caught back, all of this combined to create a vivid impression upon  Clark, which the following hours’ conversation did nothing to dispel. It was not that Rutherford  flirted with him; just about everybody did, or tried to, he was quite used to that now. On the contrary, it was that beyond the flirtation, there seemed to be some sort of connection. They  were really talking, deep in conversation  –  not trivia, but true conversation  –  so very quickly after meeting. Clark had the impression that here was somebody who was genuinely interested in him, in his thoughts and impressions, despite his modest background. Here was someone  who challenged him intellectually, testing the limits of Clark’s knowledge and understanding,  but without condescension.

For the first time since coming to town, Clark felt able to spread his wings, felt the freedom even to show off his own understanding, which, without false modesty, he knew was superior to the norm. As he had told Rutherford, he had been discouraged from appearing too bookish; with the Marquis, he felt no such constraint, and it was a joy to talk so freely with someone fully as informed as he, and so close to his own age. Even though Rutherford was a great deal more experienced, all of his conversation was infused with the vitality of one to whom learning and discovery was still a thing of the present, not of the past, an adventure still to be lived. 

The morning had taken him unaware, caught up as he was in their discourse, and in his fascination with his host. It was not, however, until Rutherford had kissed him, then backed away with that graceful apology and swift exit, that Clark realised that his fascination had been as much physical as intellectual. In retrospect he realised he had barely taken his eyes from  Rutherford’s handsome  features, save perhaps to glance at some book or other that was brought out to reinforce a point in an argument. He had been utterly absorbed in Rutherford;  his face was now etched deep in Clark’s memory, as were the long-fingered  hands, and the ever-changing grey-blue eyes. 

The kiss, however, had been a complete surprise. As already noted, flirtation was no longer foreign to him, and he had even been propositioned a few times  –  once, at least, extremely crudely  –  but no one had attempted any sort of physical intimacy with him. The press  of Rutherford’s lips on his, and the touch of those long, white fingers against his cheek, still  tingled on his skin. Afterwards, it had taken him a good ten minutes before he was able to stir, and he had barely  had the sense to murmur a response to his host’s farewell. 

Why had Rutherford not pursued the matter?  Surely, a man of his experience must have known that Clark had been his for the taking at that moment?  Clark went over and over that instant in his head, looking for the  faux pas,  the thing he had done, or said  –  no, not said, he had been as dumb as the proverbial doorpost  –  to repel the young lord. Yet, Rutherford had not seemed to be put off by him. There had been that light, fingertip caress, after the kiss, and  then the way he had tossed ‘Ganymede’ back at him, carelessly, half-smiling,  just like earlier in the evening. That did not indicate that Rutherford had developed any distaste for him. 

Clark stopped in his tracks. “Cloth-head!” he swore  at himself out loud. A couple of passers-by gave him an astonished look, and he blushed hotly and scurried along, head ducked. 

_Beef-wit!_ he went on castigating himself mentally.  _ Lobcock! No wonder he left it there. Because what did you do, you great booby? You just sat there like a stuffed dummy. Like one of  the scarecrows in your father’s fields. When he’s had any number of beautiful, willing,  responsive  creatures in his arms, what could he possibly want with a big sapskull like you in his bed?  You didn’t have the wit to let him know you were interested, so what was he supposed to think? He’s too much of a gentleman to press his attentions where he thinks they’re not wanted. _

These depressing thoughts were getting him nowhere, but he was bound to acknowledge their probable accuracy. It was all very well offering his virginity as a defence; that hardly seemed like a good argument. Everyone was a virgin at some point in their lives, after all, and if they all reacted  –  or rather, failed to react  –  like that, then the population would be seriously depleted. Experience was only gained through, well, experience  –  which kind of circular thought served only to make his head ache. The thought, however, of gaining that experience  in Rutherford’s long-limbed  embrace gave him a pleasantly peculiar feeling all over, not to mention making it imperative to hurry on before he simply could not walk anymore and disgraced himself in the street. 

The result of these disquieting considerations was that he returned home in an uncertain humour, and answered the inevitable questions with the most succinct of replies. 

“I doubt I’ll be hearing any more from his lordship again once my clothes have been  returned,”  he finally said, a little stiffly. 

Mr. and Mrs. Ross had exchanged a glance at this, wondering if Clark had been subjected to some kind of physical affront, but his discomfort did not seem of that nature. In the end, knowing how shy Clark tended to be (even though he had improved considerably over the last  weeks) they assumed that he had found his social graces lacking in Rutherford’s company,  and was embarrassed with himself over it. 

Clark was quite wrong about not hearing from Rutherford again, of course. His clothes ( the coat and boots in very sorry state, despite clear efforts to revive them)  were returned the following morning. Then, four days later, a succession of message boys, led by a porter in  Rutherford’s distinctive grey and lavender livery, appeared at Adam Street bearing boxes –  many boxes  –  unblazoned, but all pale beige with a smart navy trim, all clearly labelled for the attention of Mr. Kent. 

Under the astonished eyes of the Rosses, Clark opened one of the two largest boxes, and withdrew a day-coat of the best quality Bath superfine in a rich, deep blue, with discreet  silver buttons. The other large box contained a similar coat in burgundy, with mother o’ pearl  buttons. Everything else came to match; four simply and elegantly cut brocade waistcoats, two in white, one each in pearl grey and fawn, two pairs each of Inexpressibles, white and biscuit-coloured, in finest jersey knit, a dozen pure white lawn shirts, two dozen fine cambric neck cloths, two dozen pairs of white stockings. There was no doubt, either, that it was all expressly tailored for Clark; the dimensions of the jackets made that all too clear. 

“Well!” Mrs. Ross said, overwhelmed. “It’s clear enough where all this comes from.  Lord Rutherford certainly knows how to express his gratitude in style.”

“Aye, Weston style!” agreed her oldest, Matthew, in frank admiration. 

“What?” Clark exclaimed.

“Weston?” Peter queried at the same time. “There’s no name on the boxes.” 

“Chucklehead,” Matthew admonished him amiably. “Weston don’t need to mark his  boxes, everyone  in London knows those colours. It’s not everyone in London who can get two whole outfits ready in less than a week, though. I’d bet Weston’s order books are filled until next Easter, and he don’t cut his cloth for just anyone, but if there isn’t a note in  that lot telling Clark to go to the shop for alterations  if necessary, then I’m a Chinaman.” 

The porter, still present, coughed discreetly and produced an envelope. 

“Sir is quite correct.” He held out the note to Clark. “Mr. Weston does not care to  see his customers less than perfectly fitted. Once Mr. Kent has tried everything on, if there is anything  that is not just so, he is kindly requested to visit Mr. Weston’s for adjustments at his  earliest  convenience.” 

Clark, by now red-faced, stammered,  “I – it’s – I can’t – I know what... but I can’t accept....” 

The porter extracted another note from his pockets. 

“His lordship anticipated sir might say something of the sort, and instructed me to give sir this in such an event.” 

Clark stared at the man, completely bewildered, and took the second note. Removing himself a little from the assembled company, he broke open the seal and unfolded a sheet of crested paper.

  


–  th April 1821 

Dear Mr. Kent, 

I anticipated you might be inclined to refuse this gift.  Don’t be foolish. I have seen the clothing left to dry & am  quite aware that much of it is ruined. I am also quite aware,  at the risk of offending your sensibilities, of your financial circumstances & that the loss of a coat, various other small items, & a pair of boots, is not one that you can take lightly.

I do not consider a plate of cheese & a couple of glasses of claret adequate recognition for my life. This comes a little closer (though only a little) to the mark. 

Furthermore, let me appeal to your no doubt thrifty  northern nature. These garments have been tailor’d  scrupulously after your own. If you do not choose to wear them, I assure you no one else will be able to, for I am quite certain there is not another gentleman in town of your imposing stature. 

Show a little of that sound common sense I perceived in you the other night, & accept this with my sincerest thanks. 

Yrs, 

Rutherford

  


Clark was incapable of suppressing a smile. Rutherford wrote almost exactly as he spoke, with a distinct, sardonic note. He handed the note to Mr. Ross, and the judge perused it, then gave a little chuckle. 

“The Luthors never lacked in charm. Well, Clark, it’s up to you.”

“My father wouldn’t like it.”

“Probably not,” Ross agreed  neutrally.  


“On the other hand, he’s absolutely right,” Clark sighed, indicating the note.

“That can be so irritating, can’t it?” 

Clark grinned at his solemn tone. “If I return these, I’ll just look like an ungrateful  gapeseed,  won’t I?” he said, with wry amusement. “You don’t think it – improper, sir?” 

“No, no. A trifle extravagant, perhaps, but from what I’ve heard that would be very  much in the  Rutherford’s nature.” 

Clark nodded, and looked at the porter. “You’re his lordship’s man, not Weston’s, is that right?” 

“Yes, sir.”  


“I’d like you to take a note back to him.”  


“Certainly, sir.”  


Clark went to the writing desk and penned a brief note.

  


–  th April 1821 

To The Marquis of Rutherford 

Dear Lord Rutherford, 

After your pithy little homily, what else can I do but accept your kind gift with gratitude.   However, did it have to be Weston?

Yrs truly, 

Clark Kent

  


The reply returned less than an hour later, along with the two tomes of Russian history  from Rutherford’s library.

  


But, dear boy, I don’t  know any other tailors! 

P.S. If you attempt to return the boots, too, I shall be seriously cross with you. 

P.P.S. You forgot the books.

  


“Arrogant....” Clark muttered under his breath, but left the phrase unfinished,  with a rueful smile. It was not as if Rutherford had not every excuse; he was young, rich, handsome, intelligent, popular  – 

“And as far above your touch as the moon,” Clark sighed softly, and put  both notes away carefully in a private place. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ￼Disclaimer: Many of the characters used in this work of fan-fiction are the creation and property of DC Comics, Time/Warner and all relevant subsidiaries. No infringement of copyright is intended, and no income of any nature is being derived from its publication.


	5. In Which A Visit To White's Turns Instructive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is more than one kind of gift horse, and sometimes, it is good to look it in the teeth, regardless of proverbs.

While Clark generally avoided invitations of any sort from Lord Swann, the next one he received seemed to be a somewhat different proposition from the norm. It turned out to be an  invitation for both himself and Peter Ross to White’s, to be preceded by dinner at Lord Swann’s  townhouse in company with several others, and Clark found himself hard put to refuse. Swann habitually surrounded himself with a small coterie of young men. While there were at least two  of these ‘regulars’ whom Clark cordially  detested  –  more for their waspish, malicious tongues than their exaggerated mannerisms and mode of dress  –  there were equally a couple of others who were quite decent fellows. The rest tended to be a bunch of amusing if somewhat frippery rattles. 

More to the point, White’s was one of London’s Meccas for young gentlemen. Neither  he nor Pete could afford the £5 door charge for non-members, much less the 20 guinea annual membership fee, so their only chance of passing those hallowed portals was as the guests of a member. Since Swann had unequivocally included Pete in his invitation, Clark felt easier about accepting it; besides which, he knew that if Pete ever discovered Clark had turned down the  chance for both of them to visit White’s, he would  never forgive him. 

Having endured the obligatory lectures on correct behaviour and the perils of gaming  from Pete’s father, they set out in good spirits, and, as the evening progressed,  there seemed to be nothing to dampen that mood. Dinner, though a little  light for Clark’s hearty appetite,  was very fine. Although the wines flowed easily, there was no push to excessive consumption (as Clark had experienced elsewhere before now) and Clark felt no awkwardness in maintaining his usual moderation. Lord Swann, for once, kept his assiduities towards Clark to a discreet  minimum which, in turn, spared Clark from the worst barbs from Swann’s most offensive  habitués. 

By the time the party reached White’s, the two boys were in high gig, and the atmosphere of the club  –  an unusual mixture of bustle and relaxation  –  delighted them. Swann introduced them idly to one or two people, and there were a few others they had already met at various functions. Clark got caught up in conversation with some of these for a little while, and by the time he was able to move on, Pete was involved with another group, hotly debating the merits of the latest boxing phenomenon to appear on the scene. Clark kept well out of that one, with a little smile; he did not box himself, and could not be persuaded into it, rather to  Pete’s disgust, so he preferred not to remind his friend of that little disappointment.  Instead, he went to take a curious look at the gaming rooms. 

The hazard tables took his breath away. He had thought them steep enough at Almack’s, with their twenty-  and fifty-guinea limits. Here, though, the limits stood at one- and  two-hundred guineas. He took a look at the famous betting book, too, many of the bets making him open wide eyes at their decidedly indelicate nature.

“If you like to play, Kent, it’s a shame to stand around watching,” a humorous voice said  at his side. 

It was Mr. Hume, one of Swann’s rattles, with whom he’d dined that evening. Clark smiled. “Hazard at that level’s well beyond my touch. I wouldn’t have minded a hand of piquet, but the tables are full.” 

“There are more upstairs,” Hume said cheerfully. “Tell you what, you get the drinks  organised,  and I’ll get the table. A hock for me, there’s a good chap.” 

“Yes, but where?” Clark asked,  amused, as Hume seemed ready to trot off without giving him further directions. 

“Oh, they call it the Red Room.” 

Clark did as he was bid, found a waiter to order a glass of hock for Hume, and a port for himself, and asked for directions to the Red Room, which turned out to be on the second floor. He had just arrived on the landing, and was looking to the left, where he had been told the room lay, when he felt a touch at his elbow. Turning his head, he found Rutherford at his shoulder. 

“My lord.”  His smile blossomed without reserve. 

“Mr. Kent. What are you doing here?” 

Clark’s smile faded at Rutherford’s brusque tone. “I was invited by a member, I assure you.” 

Rutherford made an impatient gesture. “No, no, I didn’t mean in White’s, I meant  up  here, on the second floor.” 

“Why – I’m expected for a game of piquet.” 

“Up here? Which room?” 

“The Red Room. Sir, I don’t understand this interrogation,” he said, confused, for  Rutherford looked well nigh thunderous. 

“I’m sure you don’t,” he  said, tight-lipped.  “Who is your host? To the game, I mean.” 

“Mr. Hume.”

Rutherford made an indeterminate sound, and then seemed to make a conscious effort  to relax a little. “Have you had supper, Mr. Kent?” 

Clark hesitated. “Well....” 

Suddenly,  all constraint fled from Rutherford, and he grinned swiftly. “Let me guess. You have, but there wasn’t much of it, and it was a while ago now.” 

Clark chuckled a little sheepishly, pleased to find again the charming companion of the  previous week. “Something like that,” he conceded. 

“Then join me, please. Here, now. They have a very passable dining room here.” 

“I can’t, sir, I’m promised to this game....” 

“I’ll see to Mr. Hume.” The steely glint from earlier had returned. “It’s not a hand you want to play, Mr. Kent, trust me on this. Say you’ll dine with me instead.” 

After a moment, Clark nodded, and Rutherford snapped his fingers for a waiter. “Mr.  Kent and I will be dining. Show him to the supper lounge, he is unfamiliar with the premises,  and see to a table for us. I’d like a bottle of the Château Condrieu.” 

“Yes, my lord,” the waiter bowed. 

“I’ll be along presently,” Rutherford said and, with another light touch to Clark’s arm,  was gone, down the passage to the left. 

Decidedly, Clark thought bemusedly, following the waiter as he had been bidden, his lordship was as good as a tidal wave and just as impossible to ignore. He wondered what had angered Rutherford so; the only thing he was sure of was that it had not been him. 

Installed in the lounge, he had the presence of mind to ask another waiter to inform Pete as to his whereabouts, and then he settled back to wait. True to his word, Rutherford joined him within a very few minutes, and while Clark badly wanted him to explain himself, it was clear the other man would say nothing while the table was being set for them. Instead,  they consulted the list of dishes proffered by the establishment’s kitchens. They agreed quickly  on the Musselburgh pie  –  it was a nice, hearty dish Clark knew and usually enjoyed  –  and a light consommé to start with, but selecting a first course proved to be slightly harder. 

“I hear the eels in aspic are very good,” Rutherford commented blandly. 

Clark could not repress a shudder  –  he had nothing against fish, but eels were a different matter  –  and tried not to look reproachfully at his companion. When he did look up  though, he caught the glint in the pale eyes, and sighed.

“You’re roasting me, sir,” he said, with an air of infinite patience, and was  rewarded with a little chuckle. 

“You make it very easy. I have indeed heard it is a dish to be recommended here. However, I’ll be honest and admit it is not my favourite preparation. If I’m going to eat eels, I rather prefer them smoked.” 

“I’m not  really an eel man at all,”  Clark said with dignity. 

“Very well. What say you to  _oeufs en meurette_ as a first dish, then?” 

“I don’t believe I’m familiar with that preparation.” 

“It’s eggs poached in claret and served on a slice of fried bread with  a sauce of onion,  bacon and red wine. Yes?” 

Clark nodded, only hoping his mouth was not watering too much. 

“Good.” To the waiter, Rutherford added, “A salad, of course, and the Rhenish creams.” 

The waiter poured glasses of the wine Rutherford had ordered, and then left with their order. Clark looked soberly at Rutherford. 

“I must ask, sir, what it was that so raised your ire regarding my presence on the second floor, as well as what you said to Mr. Hume to excuse my crying off on our game.” 

“As to Hume, I gave him a piece of my mind,” he said coolly, “which was no more than he deserved. Tell me, who did bring you here tonight?” 

“Lord Swann.”

Rutherford frowned. “Hume is one of his regulars.” 

“So I believe.” 

“I had not thought that you  were, however, or that you were on the point of becoming  so. Quite the opposite, in fact. It’s been my information that you’ve usually had the good sense to avoid Lord Swann’s  attentions.” 

Clark flushed a little at Rutherford’s tone. “It’s true that  usually I am not open to his invitations. However, on this occasion it was a fair-sized party, and the invitation included my  friend Mr. Ross, and, indeed, the evening has been generally quite unexceptionable.”

“Until one of his satellites lures you to  a game in an upper room where the stakes are  two guineas per point,” Rutherford said calmly. 

“Two –!” Clark was stunned, but Rutherford just studied him dispassionately, sipping his wine. “Are –  are you sure, sir? I was, well, prepared for maybe a shilling,  but....” 

“It is one of the disadvantages of the club that one is expected to know the conventions  before even setting foot through the door, which is, it must be admitted, rather hard on newcomers. However, the members are supposed to be gentlemen, and no true gentleman would  consider fooling a green cub into a situation where he’s liable to lose his shirt. Something of which I reminded Mr. Hume, who bears a gentleman’s name, if his manners leave something to  be desired. I have to say that I suspect  an ulterior motive, in your case.” 

“An ulterior motive?” 

A faint, crooked smile appeared on Rutherford’s lips. “If you’ve been keeping Swann dangling for weeks, most assuredly. He’s not accustomed to being refused, given his status and  his wealth.  If persuasion won’t work, then coercion may do the job, and how would you react if he was in possession of your vowels to the tune of several hundred pounds?” 

“Surely it would be Mr. Hume who held the vowels?” 

“Hume, like the majority of Swann’s hangers-on, is financially reliant on his patron. He’ll do whatever he’s told – including fleecing you, if that was the plan.” 

Clark took a long moment to consider this. Rutherford’s meaning was clear enough, and  it rather appalled him. 

“You’re assuming I’d lose, sir,” he eventually said, putting a brave face on his shock. “I’m generally accounted to be a fair hand at cards.” 

Rutherford smiled more warmly. “Are you? Some day you and I shall sit down and play  a hand or two  –  for pennies, or even matchsticks,”  he put in, the teasing note reappearing in his voice, “and we shall see just how good you are.” 

“Whenever you will. However, the point I was trying to make was that I’m no pigeon for the plucking.” 

“That, my young friend, would depend on who  was doing the plucking. Against Hume,  I’m fairly certain you would end up losing.” 

“You mean he ch – ” Clark began, scandalised. 

Swiftly, Rutherford reached across the table and pressed long fingers to Clark’s lips in a  brief, silencing movement, laughing  softly. “Hush, boy. It’s one thing to have suspicions, and  quite another to voice them out loud. Believe me, if there was any shred of evidence, he would  not be welcome on these premises nor, indeed, in any respectable house in London. Let’s just say that his skill seems a little uncanny.” 

“You make me feel horribly green, sir,” Clark said dolefully. “I think the sooner I get my head into my books in Oxford, the better off I’ll be.” 

“Not a bit of it,” came the cheerful reply. “You just need  a little expert guidance.  London is a fine place to be, and it’s not absolutely necessary to be rolling in blunt to enjoy it. You just need to know how.” 

Over the delicious supper, he proceeded to impart a good deal of extremely useful information in an amusing and light vein. It was a very different conversation from that of their previous meeting, yet Clark felt once again that intense connection between them, a kind of facility of communication that was unlike anything he had previously experienced. 

They had removed to another room, more casually appointed, to enjoy brandies and small, fragrant cups of coffee when Pete came in search of his friend. Rutherford was the first to see the young man approach, and correctly divined his purpose. He got to his feet with easy grace. Clark, looking round and seeing Pete, too, echoed the movement. 

“Pete! Were you looking for me?” 

“Yes, it’s nigh on two in the morning, Clark.” 

“Let me introduce you first. Sir, my friend, Mr. Peter Ross. Pete, this  is the Marquis of Rutherford.” 

Rutherford graciously offered his hand, but was a little startled when the youth, wide-eyed, seized it suddenly and began shaking it enthusiastically. 

“Oh, I say, I recognise you – didn’t know it was your lordship, though.  Seen you riding  in the Park, early in the morning.” 

Rutherford extricated his hand gently. “Quite possible, although it means you must keep very nearly as early hours as Mr. Kent does.” 

Clark suppressed a grin at Pete’s fleeting scowl; the matter  of the early riding hours was rather a sore point at present with his slugabed friend. 

“Yes, well, it’s my turn for the early morning shift this last week,” Pete grumbled,  incomprehensibly  to Rutherford. “Still,” he went on, more eagerly, “what I wanted  to say was,  that black mare you ride,  that’s a prime bit of blood and bone you have there, sir! As sweet a goer as I’ve ever laid eyes on!” he vowed, his usual, bubbling exuberance coming to the fore  once again.

Rutherford smiled slightly. “I take  it you have an interest in horseflesh, Mr. Ross. Pray,  join us. You don’t have to leave immediately, do you? Will you have a brandy, or some other refreshment?” 

An attentive waiter pulled up another of the big leather-covered club chairs, and Pete shyly accepted the offer of a brandy. 

“Thank you, sir. Yes, yes, there’s nothing I love better than a good horse, and that black mare’s a real beauty!” 

Pete, who was generally sports-mad, but especially so when it came to horses, launched into an avid discourse with Rutherford about current racing favourites, and the prospects up for sale at the next Tattersall auctions. Clark, watching them, realised that Rutherford was just a little bored, but was being charming to Pete nevertheless, and the only possible reason he would put up with  Pete’s babbling to this extent was because he was Clark’s friend. That  realisation sent a strange thrill through him. He loved it that this elegant, distinguished, brilliant personage was willing to interact with his, Clark’s,  friends, at least the space of a brandy,  just for his sake. 

“No, no,” Rutherford was saying to Pete, “if you think Easton’s greys are a good set, you need to take a closer look. Splendid form, I’m not arguing there, but too nervy by half. I  wouldn’t  like to chance that quartet in a tight place, or at high speed.” 

“But...” 

Rutherford cut him off. “I know, one doesn’t want placid horses, either. I like an animal with a bit of spirit myself. However, there’s a fine line between too little and too  much, and  carriage horses need a good deal less than an individual mount. If my pair hadn’t been so twitchy the other night, I wouldn’t have ended up in the river.” 

“If you’d had a firm hold of the reins, I doubt you would, either,” Clark put in mildly. 

“Well, there is that,” Rutherford conceded, with a faint laugh. “Still, I didn’t really buy  that pair to be carriage horses, they just needed an outing quickly after being cooped up for transport for the best part of two weeks. I brought them to breed. I have a stud farm in  Devonshire,” he added, in answer to questioning looks from both his young companions. “Anyway, the bays have gone there. I’ll have to relinquish my black mare, too, for a while, to  let one or two of the others come to the stables here and become accustomed to more everyday use. The exercise  programmes aren’t at all the same if they’re not intended for the races.” He suddenly gave Clark a curiously speculative look. “I imagine you have some difficulty finding  a decent horse to  ride, Mr. Kent.”

“Well, Mr. Ross lets me borrow one of theirs whenever I wish to ride...” 

“You’re quite right, sir,” Pete interrupted wryly. “He’s too big to be comfortable on any  of ours for long. Apart from the pair, for the carriage, we have four, but two were really bought  for m’mother and sisters.” 

“I picked up a very fine Trakehner in Vienna a little over a year ago –  chestnut, with white socks  – splendid animal, but he was barely a yearling when I got him, and he’s grown  another 5 inches or so  since then. He’s huge, even for that breed, close on eighteen and a half  hands. These are dressage horses, intelligent, made for subtlety, despite the size, and I do not  have a rider big enough to handle him. Even I’m not quite up to his girth. It would  suit me very  well for him to have a rider up to his requirements.” He looked over at Pete, with a little tilt of his head towards Clark. “He is a decent rider, is he not?” 

“Excuse me...!” Clark exclaimed, a little vexed at being so casually examined like  this. Both the others ignored him. 

“Well – he has a fair seat, and light hands,” Pete said critically. “Not in your class, though, sir.” 

“Few are,” Rutherford said casually. 

For a second, Pete was taken aback at the easy superiority of the statement, but then  forged ahead. “Still, he’s no bruiser, for all his size and –  this might sound foolish, but the  horses like him.” 

“Thank you, Pete, you make it sound like we have frequent conversations!” Clark said  with some asperity. 

Pete chuckled.  “Sometimes it looks like it.” 

“Are you interested?” Rutherford asked Clark. “I could have Pokal here by the end of  the week. He could do with a regular work-out.” 

“It would be nice to get the exercise,” Clark admitted, “but I’m afraid I might not be  up  to your standards.” 

Rutherford’s lips twitched. “If you’re that concerned, you could always meet me for a ride in the morning. I’ll have my head groom there; he could take a look at you. He’d give us both a frank opinion.” 

Clark sighed. “Are you trying to make me sound like a complete greenhorn, sir?”

“No, you’re doing that very nicely for yourself,” Rutherford said amiably. “I was quite  prepared to take the word of a good friend of yours, who has demonstrated sufficient knowledge of horseflesh to satisfy me that his opinion of you as a rider is likely to be reasonably  sound.” Behind the lazy smile, the light-coloured eyes sharpened noticeably. “You should believe me when I say that if you’re not up to snuff, I’ll let you know it soon enough.” 

Clark blinked, and  then grinned swiftly. “Well, that’s put me in my place. Thank you, sir, I’d like it very much.” 

Rutherford nodded. “I’ll let you know when he’s arrived.” He stood, and the two  others  followed suit. “You’ll have no trouble getting home?” 

The question reminded Pete of why he had come to find Clark in the first place. “Oh, that’s right – meant to tell you,” he said to his friend, “Lord Swann’s gone off and left us,  without so much as a by-your-leave, and thunder-faced, too, from  what I heard. How d’you like that?” 

Clark exchanged a look with Rutherford, whose eyes showed cynical amusement. “We can walk it easily enough. I don’t suppose we’ll get a cab at this time of night.” 

“On the contrary,” Rutherford told him, “the staff  here will easily be able to summon a  cab for you, if you wish.” 

“And I picked up five guineas at one of the loo tables downstairs,” Pete added cheerfully, “so we don’t need to worry about the fare. I think it was pretty shabby of his lordship to  leave  us flat like that, but we’ve no need to fret.” 

“Then I bid you both good night. A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Ross. Thank you for your company over supper, Mr. Kent.” 

“Thank you for – everything,” Clark said shyly. “I look forward to  perhaps riding with  you some mornings.” 

He merely inclined his head graciously, with a slanted, enigmatic smile, and was gone. 

“Well, that was interesting,” Pete said mildly,  watching him depart.  “Not what I expected at all.” 

“No, he’s not, is he,” Clark agreed, a little abstractedly, then shook off his momentary  distraction.  “Did you really win five guineas tonight?” 

“I certainly did,” Pete proclaimed smugly. “Told myself I’d play no more than ten  shillings at whatever came along, and then there was an opening at the loo tables and I took it.  The dice rolled up and down for a bit, but I still had most of my stake, and then I hit a run of dashed good luck. When my winnings got to the five-guinea  mark, I thought I’d better cut and  run before it  all turned sour on me and I lost my shirt.”

“Good for you,” Clark smiled. 

“What about you? Tell me you weren’t playing  him!” 

“No, no – though he has said he’ll play me at some later date, just for fun. I haven’t played at all, actually.” 

Pete gave  his friend a scandalised look. “You mean to say you’ve been floating around White’s for the last couple of hours and haven’t dropped so much as a farthing? Clark Kent, you are the biggest chub I’ve ever come across!” 

Clark flushed, and smiled a little  crookedly. “It’s probably just as well I didn’t try. I’d likely have rued the day.” 

“You’re not that bad a card-player.” 

“Apparently, that would depend on my opponent.” 

There was an odd note in Clark’s voice, and Pete gave him a sharp look. “What d’you mean?” 

“Not here. Let’s get that cab and I’ll tell you on the way home.” 

In the hansom, as promised, Clark told Pete all about Mr. Hume, the upstairs gaming  rooms, Rutherford’s intervention  and his reasons for the same. Pete listened attentively, eyes growing rounder and rounder as he did so. 

“Are you sure Rutherford had the right of it?” he asked, when Clark was done. 

“I don’t see he had any reason to lie to me. He couldn’t have known I was going to be at White’s tonight, and he certainly looked surprised enough to see me. Besides,” he added, “you supplied the finishing touch. You told us Swann had gone off in high dudgeon. Wouldn’t you say that’s the reaction of a thwarted man?” 

Pete looked much struck by the argument. “Well, by gum, so I would!” Then he got  indignant.  “Of all the damned, underhanded, scurvy tricks to play on a fellow!” 

He animadverted on in that fashion until they reached Adam Street, pausing only to agree, albeit reluctantly, when Clark bound him to secrecy over the incident.

In his room, Clark found himself in an abstracted mood again as he prepared for bed. His mind was fully preoccupied with the handsome young lord with whom he had supped. There had been nothing, this time, to suggest at anything more intimate between them. Rutherford’s  manner had still been lightly flirtatious, but Clark suspected that such was just his  way in general. There had been the touch to his lips, to keep him from voicing the suspicion  regarding Hume’s conduct, and there had  been, occasionally, a light in the pale, grey-blue eyes that had seemed unusually warm, but nothing more than that, and the continued kindnesses. 

Clark was pulled from his reverie by a tap at the door and, drawing his robe around him, he went to open it. It was Pete, and Clark immediately stepped aside to let his friend in. 

“Something wrong?” he asked, for  Pete looked a little troubled. 

“I was thinking...” 

“Ah, is that the smoke I see rising from your head?” Clark said, in a concerned tone. “You really must beware of getting overheated.” 

“Gudgeon!” Pete retorted amiably, grinning. “No, be serious a minute, Clark.” 

“All right,” he smiled, and sat on the edge of his bed, fully attentive now. Pete sat beside him. “Go on,” Clark encouraged him. 

“Well – not that I think his lordship was feeding you a line tonight...” 

“I take it you mean Lord Rutherford, and not Lord Swann?” 

“Yes, of course. But anyway, have you –  have you considered that Rutherford may be after the same thing as Swann, after all?  There’s more than one way of being obligated to a body, you know?” 

Clark frowned a little. “Swann did what he did tonight because I’ve been refusing him steadily for weeks. I’ve only just met Rutherford, and – and there’s been nothing of that nature between us.” 

Pete eyed him askance. “If you don’t know when a fellow’s flirting with you...” 

“It’s just his way, nothing more than that.” Of that, Clark was  now depressingly certain.  “If we’re going to talk of obligations,  I suspect he still feels  one towards me, and that he’s quite keen on working it off by being as helpful to me as he knows how.” 

“Good grief, don’t two Weston coats fit the bill?”

Clark grinned swiftly. “He doesn’t come across as a coxcomb, but I think that, neverthe less, he has  no small opinion of himself, Pete. You heard him, about his skill at riding. He’s no shrinking violet, that’s  for sure.”

Pete chuckled. “Well, yes, you have a point there. Still, you should be careful, Clark.” 

Clark got a faintly mulish look. “Would it be so very unsuitable?” 

“Look, I know, on the face of it, there’s no problem. You’re unattached, he’s unattached, but it doesn’t work that way, Clark, and you know that as well as I do. He’s too young to settle down with a man, it’s not possible. He’s heir to an old and distinguished title, as well as a vast fortune; he’s got to marry and produce more little Luthors, sooner rather than later. It’s inevitable.  Maybe at some later date, if he was free again, things could have been different, but  not now. It’s not like you’re ready to settle down, either; you’re off to Oxford in September, how can you possibly conduct a relationship when you’re going to be a student  for the next  three years?” 

“Who’s talking about settling down?” Clark protested  feebly. 

“I haven’t known you this last ten years without learning a few things about you; you’re  no butterfly.  You don’t know how to conduct affairs lightly; you feel the need to engage on all levels. You’ve got other commitments ahead of you right now,  which I know you would never  give up, and even if you did, he’d be a disastrous choice for you, because he wouldn’t be able to give you what you need. Not now, at this time.” 

Clark was silent for a moment, then shrugged. “I appreciate your concern,  Pete, but  there’s nothing in it. I’m just the man who fished him out of the river.” He smiled impishly. “You should know something about that. That’s how you and I got to be friends, after all.” 

Pete shot him a darkling glance. “Yes, you hauled me  bodily out of all of six inches of  water in my own back garden.” 

“Well, how was I to know you were  trying  to frighten the ducks?” Clark said limpidly. “I  thought I was rescuing you from drowning. You were certainly making enough of a row about  it.” 

Pete  groaned. “I do wish my father would stop telling that story. You’d think after all these years, he’d have grown tired of it.” 

“I don’t know, I still think it’s pretty funny.” 

“You have a very juvenile sense of humour, Clark,” Pete said sternly. 

“Quoth the greybeard. Anyway, you see, there’s nothing in it. Why would someone like Rutherford look twice at me anyway?” Clark added, a little wryly.

“Oh, I don’t know. Perhaps for the same reason half of London looks at you that way? You’re bright, you’re all that is amiable, and you’re not exactly an antidote to the eye.” 

Briefly silenced, Clark then batted his long eyelashes outrageously at his friend. “Why, Pete, I didn’t know you felt that way!” 

There was only one possible response to that. Pete grabbed one of the pillows and started beating Clark around the head with it. Clark let him get in a few solid whacks before reaching for another pillow and retaliating, and soon they were engaged in the kind of good, old-fashioned pillow-fight that had entertained them many times before in their younger years. The thumping and the giggling eventually attracted the attention of another member of the household  –  not, fortunately for the boys, Mr. Ross, but Matthew, who banged on the door crossly, then stuck his head in and told them not to be such a pair of silly cawkers, but to let  everyone get a good night’s sleep. 

This caution naturally left Pete quite speechless with indignation, considering the number of times Matthew had come home in the early hours of the morning in a pleasantly tipsy mood, which invariably led to him whistling, loudly and off-key, the latest popular ballad, to the  annoyance of the entire household. He therefore promptly left Clark’s room to give his brother  a piece of his mind, and Clark, laughing softly, closed the door behind him and went to bed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ￼Disclaimer: Many of the characters used in this work of fan-fiction are the creation and property of DC Comics, Time/Warner and all relevant subsidiaries. No infringement of copyright is intended, and no income of any nature is being derived from its publication


	6. In Which A Mystery Is Discussed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A ride in the Park is followed by a pleasant breakfast, and the conversation strays into diverting paths.

Another message from Rutherford came quickly. Just four days later, Clark, dressed for riding, exited the house early in the morning to find a groom waiting with two horses. 

“Good morning, sir,” the groom greeted him politely. “You’ll be Mr. Kent?” 

“That’s right. You’re Lord Rutherford’s head groom?” 

“The name’s ‘enry, sir. This is Pokal.” He handed the reins of  a giant chestnut over to  Clark. “He’s  a nice-tempered  fellow, but ‘e’s a bit down ‘cause ‘e’s not been gettin’ out enough.” 

The chestnut turned his noble head to look at Clark thoughtfully from great, liquid, dark eyes. Clark patted the velvet nose, and stood close, letting the horse take him in properly. 

“My, you are a big one all right,” he murmured admiringly. “Are you not happy? Well, we’ll see if we can do something about that.” There was a rattle and a crash somewhere just  out of sight, and the big horse flinched a little, but Clark  soothed him gently. “I know, this is a dreadful, noisy place, isn’t it? Don’t be frightened; it’s just someone making deliveries.  Now,  let’s see about stretching those long legs of yours a bit.” 

The chestnut whiffled softly, and nudged him, a small, friendly gesture. Clark was aware of the groom suppressing a smile, though whether it was an approving one, or an amused one, he could not tell. At any rate, the horse seemed to have accepted him now, and he mounted up. 

Clark had ridden his father’s  plough-horses, big, powerful, but slow and ungainly creatures, and he had ridden Mr. Ross’s horses, far better bred, but generally too small and light for  his comfort. He had never ridden an animal like this great chestnut stallion, power allied with grace and intelligence. Once in the Park, able to gallop freely, he forgot everything in the pleasure of the ride, but both before and after, when he cantered sedately down the Mall to meet Henry again, as arranged, he was acutely conscious of the looks he was garnering, heads turning at the passage of the very tall rider on his very tall horse. Instinctively, he withdrew into himself, and while he was careful not to let Pokal feel his uncertainty, he could not help shrinking in a bit physically, trying to diminish his stature, immensely magnified by the height of the stallion. If he could have kept to the gallop, he would have, but the Mall was already filling with the morning riders and strollers, and it simply was not done to race up and down its broad length. 

He recognised Rutherford from a distance, the red hair unmistakeable even beneath the  high hat, seated with easy elegance on his trim black mare. Henry, still on horseback, was a few paces away, and Rutherford was conversing with another man, but looked up as Clark approached, and smiled slightly.

“Good morning, Mr. Kent,” he said, as Clark reined in alongside him. “Good ride?” 

“Very good, my lord, thank you.” 

Rutherford nodded, and introduced Clark to the other man. “Mr. Fitzallen –  Mr. Kent.”  When they had shaken hands, he turned his attention wholly to Fitzallen again. “Fitz, thank you for that information. You may certainly count on me to host an evening; I’d be delighted. Just  let me know as quickly as possible what the likely dates are, and leave the rest to me. It will be  a pleasure to hear him in my own house, and I’m sure the magic of that voice will be more  persuasive  than any words you or I could find.” 

“Excellent! I can tell you that Signor Davide, and all the other musicians,  will perform all  the better for knowing there’s at least one true connoisseur listening,” Fitzallen said eagerly, and shook Rutherford’s hand vigorously before riding off with a cheerful farewell. 

Rutherford turned his attention to Clark, looking him over with a critical eye. 

“I don’t need my groom to tell me you’re slouching in the saddle,” he said dryly, though with a light note that precluded offence. “What’s wrong with you, Kent? Sit up! Pokal’s not  going to be happy carting a sack of potatoes around on his back, and you hold yourself straight  enough on your own two feet.” 

“The gen’leman sits well enough in the gallop, m’lord,” Henry put in slyly. “’Tis only in the street, when ‘e ‘as to slow down for company ‘e starts to curve the spine a bit.” 

“Is that it?” Rutherford exclaimed, enlightened. “You’re abashed by your inches, or at least, your combined inches, yours and Pokal’s?” 

Clark blushed hotly, but it was true, and he could not deny it. “I feel rather like Gulliver  in Lilliput, sir.” 

“You are too self-conscious,” Rutherford said bluntly. “You cut a fine figure, when you  allow it of yourself. Your height is an accident of birth; it does not make you a freak of nature. If there are those who have attempted to make you feel otherwise, then it is their own insecureties they are expressing. Look at you, you sit taller than I by several inches, but it doesn’t bother me in the least.” 

Clark smiled involuntarily. “It’s my impression that there’s precious little about which  you might  be inclined to feel insecure.” 

Rutherford slanted him an enigmatic glance. “You might be surprised, Mr. Kent, you might be surprised.” His tone turned brisker. “I’d be pleased if you would breakfast with me. My club is just around the corner.” 

Clark’s  initial impulse was to accept instantly, but he had not anticipated this invitation. “It’s very kind of you...” 

“If you have another engagement, of course, I won’t insist.” 

“No, or at least, not until eleven, but I hadn’t said I wouldn’t be back.” 

Rutherford made a slight, dismissive gesture. “Henry can take a message, and there’s plenty of time; it’s only just turned eight.” 

“Then, thank you, I’d like that very much,” Clark acquiesced shyly. 

As they rode on, at a leisurely pace, and because  he was curious, Clark asked, “You’re planning a musical evening, sir?” 

Rutherford smiled. “Yes, indeed. The great tenor Davide is to appear at the King’s  Theatre next month, and will be here very shortly to commence rehearsals. Fitzallen, whom you just met, is connected with the management of the theatre; he always keeps me informed  of the latest developments. I love the opera, and I’m a patron at the King’s, of course. Apparently, they’re in need of additional funds, urgently. The last manager was  something of a catastrophe as an administrator, though I thought his artistic standards were good. Still, if Davide will agree to give a concert, I can ensure the right people attend, and fund-raising  should not prove too difficult. Have you heard him?” 

Clark laughed a little. “I distinctly recall telling you this was my first real venture beyond my home town. I know nothing of the opera.” 

“Ah, you must attend. It is the most sublime experience – unless you’re completely  tone-deaf, of course. You’re  not, are you?” he added, on a faintly anxious note. 

“I believe I can hold a tune,” Clark assured him, a little amused. 

“Well, the offering next month is to be the London premiere of  The Turk in Italy,  one of  Maestro Rossini’s latest pieces.” 

“I like Rossini,” the younger man offered brightly. “I’ve heard some of his music in  concerts  at home. It’s very – ” He faltered a little, feeling slightly presumptuous about offering an opinion on a subject about which he knew nothing. “It laughs,” he concluded,  suddenly shy again, though still smiling.

Rutherford smiled back. “Indeed it does. However, he has his serious side, too, and  that music is also superb. Davide  –  Giovanni Davide, that is, for his father Giacomo was also a famous singer  –  is currently one of the principal tenors at the San Carlo Theatre in Naples, where Maestro Rossini has been under contract these last few years. I was there two years ago and had the immense pleasure of hearing  _Ermione_ –  though the San Carlo audience seems to be growing cool towards Rossini, and it would not surprise me in the least were he to leave  Naples very soon.” 

“They didn’t like the opera?” 

“No – God only knows why,” he cast his eyes heavenwards, with a wry smile, “it was a  gem. I was in Naples for a week and spent every night at the theatre just to hear that piece  over and over again. I’m afraid, however, that it’s not very likely we’ll get to see it here in  London, given its cool reception at home. Still, I trust Davide can be persuaded to give a recital  in my home and to sing some of his best arias.” He looked at Clark. “You will come?” 

“If you can forgive my ignorance, with pleasure.” 

“You will be no more or less ignorant than most present. You have the considerable  merit of acknowledging  your ignorance, where most seek to conceal it,” he said sardonically. 

“That merely creates false premises.” 

“Most of our society rests on such.” 

“You are overly cynical, sir.” 

Rutherford just cast him a speaking look. “You have too much faith in  human nature.  We’re a pretty miserable lot, really. Petty, jealous, squabbling miscreants. One in a thousand is  truly capable of selfless altruism, and much of our social structure merely goes to further the interests of the self-centred  individual.” 

“As well become  a hermit, with that attitude,” Clark protested, amused. 

“Oh, no, I’m merely another of the self-centred ones. The difference is, I’m willing to admit it,” he countered, with a mocking smile. “You, on the other hand, are too idealistic for your own good, and I am simply trying to arm you against the proverbial slings and arrows.” 

“That would merely render me unhappy, to believe all my fellow beings were worthless.” 

“Or you could search for the rare pearl?” 

“According to you, he or she barely exists.” 

“Not so long ago, I would have said that he or she did not exist at all,” Rutherford  returned obliquely, with a slanted glance from beneath coppery lashes. 

“It’s too fine a day for misanthropy, sir,” Clark objected firmly. “If you please,  tell me instead  how Pokal came by his unusual name.” 

There was a little chuckle from the other man. “As you wish. It’s not such an unusual name really. It’s German, meaning a cup or goblet, but often used in the sense of a trophy,  such as a prize-cup.” 

He had reined in before an unremarkable house, and two footmen immediately dashed  down the steps to take their horses. Clark followed Rutherford’s example and dismounted,  then followed him into the building, leaving hat and gloves with another footman. An amiable, portly man greeted them. 

“Good morning, my lord. Breakfast for you and your guest?” 

“Yes, indeed, Gedge. Anything of note today?” 

“Actually, we’re quite lively this morning, my lord. Oh, and you’ll find Mr. Dunleavy in  the Green  Parlour, too.” 

“Thank you.” Gedge hurried off, and Rutherford beckoned Clark towards rooms to the left of the main entrance. “I considered telling him to be sure to make it a full breakfast,” he said teasingly, “since I know you have a hearty appetite, but I thought it likely you wouldn’t forgive me for that, and I’ve never known them to serve short rations, either.” 

“Thank you, I think,” Clark said dryly. “You are determined that I shall be known as  having a positively ogreish appetite, are you not?” 

“You’d have more grounds to take offence if it wasn’t true,” Rutherford smirked. 

His smile disappeared briefly, however, when a footman opened the door to the Green Parlour and they were assailed with loud shouts of laughter and a very considerable brouhaha. 

“Good God! I’m used to more decorum than this, normally,” Rutherford exclaimed,  startled. 

He surveyed the assembled company, and his expression lightened as he caught sight of a particular figure. He made his way across the room to the bow windows, Clark in tow. 

“Lucas.”  


The young man leaning idly against the wall looked up, and straightened with a smile as  he saw Rutherford approaching. Clark judged he was only a year or two older than himself,  Rutherford’s height but built on  stockier lines, with heavy dark brows the most distinguishing feature in an otherwise pleasantly unremarkable face. He was dressed well, but without extravagance of any sort. Clark recalled seeing him around at a few functions, though they had never been introduced.

“What  is  all this rumpus?” Rutherford asked, as they drew nigh. 

The other man grinned. “Just one of Portenoy’s tall tales again.” 

“I heard that, Dunleavy,” another voice called out from further in the room, “and it is  not  a tall tale, I’ll  have you know.” 

“Oh, yes, you were rescued from highway robbery on the heath last night by  another  highwayman,  who, by some sleight of hand, caused your first assailant’s gun barrel to explode,  and then went on his way without so much as a word to you. What else would you have us call  it, Portenoy?” Dunleavy challenged mockingly. “Just how much  did  you have to drink at the  Lovells’ rout, in any case? I know you were pretty well to let when I left.” 

The group round the fireplace parted to let an excessively modish young gentleman emerge, rather pink-faced with indignation. 

“Are you saying I’m inventing it?” 

“Not at all, no more than you invent any other of your Banbury tales. You just have a lively imagination, and all the more so when you’re foxed!” 

As this was greeted with a hearty sally of laughter, it seemed there was an element of truth to the allegation. 

“I’m telling you that’s exactly what happened,” Portenoy’s lower lip jutted out mulishly. 

“Take pity on the newcomers,” Rutherford drawled, “and begin at the beginning.” 

At that, there was an outcry, and several other men left hastily, with weak cries of  “Spare us!” Even Dunleavy shook his head mournfully. 

“You would ask, Lex,” he reproved. 

“Well, I haven’t heard one of Portenoy’s tales in a while,” Rutherford countered mildly. “You might as well indulge me while we’re waiting for breakfast to be served.” 

“Look, it’s very simple. I was on my way home via the heath from the Lovells’ rout, as your brother said, and yes, I’m not denying I was a few sheets to the wind. In fact,” Portenoy added a little sulkily, “I’m still awaiting one of Gedge’s miracle panaceas for my head.”

“He does have a peculiar knack for those mornings after,” Rutherford agreed solemnly. 

“I can do without  your  sarcasms, too, Rutherford, I thank you! Anyway, as I said, driving  back over the heath, m’carriage is stopped. My driver’s winged, I’ve no pistols in the coach,  and the blackguard  holding me up’s got two and a spare all ready for use. He sounds  mighty  upset not to find any ladies in the coach, but makes me get out and empty out m’pockets. Well, I’m not going to argue with a loaded pistol, and this fellow sounds like a nasty piece of  work anyway, when along comes this other fellow, running up on foot, if you please, all in  black, with a tricorn low over his brow and a black kerchief pulled up over his nose. Here’s me thinking the new man’s a partner of the first when, cool as you please, the second man orders  the first to desist. You can imagine the effect that had! After a moment, my first fellow turns his pistol on the second, and fires, damn near point blank, mind you, but instead of shooting the second fellow dead, the gun explodes in his hand. Makes a fine mess of it, too, I can tell you.  At that, the first robber sets up a great shriek and hares off, and m’driver’s come round  enough to get a hold of his blunderbuss  – although he couldn’t have hit the side of a house,  frankly, not trying to shoot left-handed  as he’d have had to –  and the next thing I know, I blink, and the second  fellow’s gone. Vanished into thin air, my life upon it!” 

“Vanished into the fumes of your besotted imagination, more like,” another man  grumbled. 

“You must admit, the second man seems a little improbable,” Rutherford remarked kindly. “It’s far from inconceivable  that, finding the gun exploded in his hand  –  and I can well imagine it would have made quite a mess  –  your highwayman made the best of a bad situation and took to his heels. No need for a second  man, really.” 

“Well, that’s where you’re wrong. First of all, m’driver would swear to there being two men, too...” 

“My dear Portenoy, whose servant would not swear to whatever his master says? Half the time it’s more than their life’s worth not to, and the other half, they’re too attached to  dream of contradicting.” 

“Furthermore,” Portenoy went on stubbornly, “I picked up the damn pistol, and I’ve  never seen anything quite like it. You know how these things explode. Something gets lodged in the barrel,  and the barrel bursts. Not this one. This one, the barrel’s fused, as if a red-hot –  no, a  white-hot  poker had been shoved into it, melted it, and there was nowhere for the bullet  to go. It’s not blown outwards, it’s blown back. I’m telling you,  that second man, he cast the  evil eye on it. He wasn’t looking at the first when he told him to leave his  game; he was looking  at the gun.” 

“Good God, I thought I’d left  that  kind of tall tale behind me in the wilds of Southern  Italy,”  Rutherford exclaimed,  laughing.

“I’m telling you I’ve got the pistol,” Portenoy spluttered indignantly. 

“I’m sure you do. Go to bed, Portenoy, and sleep it off, but be assured I’m as glad as any of the rest of us you came to no harm. We’d miss your fabulations.” 

Portenoy was all set to do some more grumbling, but one of his friends seized his arm. 

“Oh, come along, man, and stop arguing. Especially with Rutherford, you know how short a fuse he’s got.” 

Rutherford just grinned swiftly. “And it would be such a shame  to put a hole in that devilish  pretty waistcoat of yours.” 

Portenoy’s sulky expression vanished instantly, as he glanced down pridefully at the pale  lemon and silver-grey  patterned waistcoat he wore. “Nice, ain’t it? Nugee, of course.” 

“Of course,” Rutherford agreed soberly, and watched with an amused half-smile  as Portenoy and his cronies went off to one of the breakfast rooms. 

“Noodle-head,” Dunleavy muttered sourly. 

“He’s harmless,” Rutherford shrugged, turning back to his half-brother. “Good  morning,  Lucas. You’re not usually here so early. Care to join us for breakfast?” 

“I have an appointment at nine-fifteen, but I’ll join you ‘til then. Though,” he glanced  significantly  at Clark, “you’re slipping in your social duties, Lex.” 

Lex  raised an eyebrow. “I was under the impression you were already acquainted.” 

“Not formally.” 

“Forgive me,” he smiled a little. “Clark Kent –  my half-brother,  Lucas Dunleavy.” 

The two younger men shook hands. Clark smiled shyly, but Dunleavy, though polite, was reserved, causing Clark to retreat a little in turn. 

Over breakfast, the subject of Portenoy’s adventure  came up again. 

“Do you think there was  any  truth in his tale?”  Clark asked, as casually as he could contrive. 

“Oh, I’m sure he got held up all right,” Rutherford said, “that’s hardly unusual these  days, regrettably. It’s also not unusual for a gun to explode, if it’s  poorly kept, though that a highwayman  should be so careless, considering it’s his stock-in-trade,  does seem a bit odd. The rest, though  – what can I say, Portenoy’s got a long-standing  reputation as an embellisher. He  just likes to make his life a little more exciting than it really is.”

“I don’t know, Lex,” Dunleavy said slowly. “I mean, you’re right about Portenoy,  of  course, yet in this case, it’s not the first time I’ve heard a similar tale.” 

Rutherford looked at him interestedly. “What do you mean?” 

“It’s been going on for a little over a month now. Odd stories about a shadowy vigilante  roaming the more dangerous areas of London, intervening to stop crime. A mysterious, dark figure who appears out of nowhere, thwarts a robbery, or an attack, with disconcerting ease, and disappears just as abruptly, leaving no trace. No one who has seen him, or claims to have seen him, can give a physical description beyond a tall, masked individual all in dark clothes. No words are ever spoken, no explanation  ever given.” 

“Rumours from the gin taverns.” 

“Except that on at least four occasions, the Runners have received  anonymous tip-offs that have taken them to an address where they found notorious robbers neatly trussed up like  capons, with the evidence of that night’s ill-doings beside them.” 

Rutherford looked at him quizzically. “You’re serious.” 

“I’m telling you what I know, and what I’ve heard. There’s more. Not only does this  fellow  appear and disappear out of and into thin air, he’s invulnerable. Several reports state  that he was shot, point blank, with absolutely no effect. Villains have been found trapped in rooms with a chain wrapped around the door handle from the exterior, and crushed tight to  lock it, as if a giant hand had squeezed the links. There’s a string of bizarre phenomena like that associated with this mystery person. Portenoy’s story does  fit into this pattern to some ex tent.” 

“I wonder if I should ask to take a look at that pistol, after all?” Rutherford mused. 

“Does it matter?” Clark asked quietly. “What would you do if you found this person, if he even exists?” 

“Shake his hand, probably,” Rutherford smiled. “Though one does have to wonder  at  his motives.” 

“You don’t believe them to be as they appear? A desire to stop evil-doers,  to help others?”

“Unlikely. It’s too risky. If he’s ever discovered –  still assuming he exists, of course  –  the  next thing we’d know, he’d have his throat slit by one of the cut-purses he’s thwarted.” 

“If he’s supposed to be invulnerable....” 

“That’s nonsense. Robbers are equally prone to invent, in order to save face. No, a  sensible man wouldn’t  embark on something like that for purely altruistic reasons.” He cocked his head at Clark. “You look a little disappointed at that reasoning.” 

“I suppose I am,” Clark admitted, with a little smile. “I’d like to believe there are genu inely altruistic  people.” 

“In a rural environment, maybe there are,” Dunleavy said, a touch condescendingly. “It’s simply not practical in a metropolis like London.” 

“Still, I doubt this person exists at all. It may be some figment someone has conjured up  to explain falling-outs between thieves that have resulted in capture or foiled plans. Certainly,  Portenoy’s ‘evil eye’ is simply ludicrous.” Rutherford  chuckled. 

“What did you mean when you said you thought you’d left that kind of thing behind in  Southern  Italy?” Clark asked. 

“Oh, the Neapolitans believe absolutely in the evil eye, the  jettatura.  Your horse goes lame, someone has put the evil eye on you. Your crop is not doing as well as last year  –  evil eye. Any little thing that is out of place, and you see them gesticulating, a supposed counter- gesture.” He held up a hand, index and little finger extended, middle and ring finger, and the thumb, folded into the palm, in a sign of horns. “I swear I saw that more than the sign of the  cross! There are  times when I seriously wonder if heat doesn’t truly addle the brains.” 

Dunleavy laughed out loud. “Just because you prefer the frozen North, Lex...” 

Although he was drawn into the discussion regularly, Clark was content mostly to listen to the brothers wrangle amiably about the connection  –  if any  –  between climate and superstition. If the younger brother lacked the elder’s extensive experience of the Continent, he lagged  little in intelligence, though it was also clear that his reading was of quite a different order from  Rutherford’s. It was somewhat  difficult for Clark to imagine them as brothers; they looked nothing alike, and indeed, Clark could not recall the Peerage listing any siblings for the Marquis of Rutherford. Yet the bond between them was evidently strong, and of long standing. The one thing that continued to puzzle Clark was the coolness Dunleavy seemed to show him, and he did not dare to query outright, nor, once Dunleavy had left for his appointment, to ask Rutherford for an explanation, lest he was simply imagining things. 

Instead, as they left the club, he asked Rutherford shyly, “Will I see you again tomorrow  morning?” 

Rutherford’s gaze seemed to flicker across his features briefly, before white lids  drooped over the grey-blue eyes lazily. 

“I ride very early tomorrow, and plan to forego breakfast. I have my fencing lesson  tomorrow morning, and will be there until quite late on, no doubt. Pokal will be at Adam Street as this morning, however, never fear, unless the weather counter-indicates  matters.” 

“No, I wasn’t concerned about that. I – it’s your decision, sir, when I ride Pokal, and I’m content with that. I just wondered.” 

There was a brief pause, then Rutherford looked at him, with a faint smile. “I enjoy your  company. If you wish, come to the  _salle_ after you’ve breakfasted. I exercise at M. Fouchécourt’s, in the Haymarket.” 

“I’ve no wish to disturb a lesson.” 

“No, no, by that time, the lesson will be over, I’ll merely be sparring, and no doubt  indulging in  a little gossiping. Do you fence yourself?” 

“Only in the most basic sense,” Clark smiled. 

“Still, we could exchange a few passes. I’d be curious to see your form. You don’t box, I take it?” 

“No – can you imagine it? I’m far too big!” he exclaimed,  half-laughing. 

“True. It would hardly be fair.  At any rate, you might as well let me see what you can do with a sword.  If you’re any good, I could always introduce you to the master. If he thinks you’re of interest, you might even get personal lessons.” 

“Oh, no, I’d be very surprised if a master swordsman found me of any interest,” Clark blushed. “I doubt you will.” 

“I shall be the judge of that,” Rutherford said obliquely. “So it’s agreed – you’ll come by Fouchécourt’s  salle  tomorrow after  breakfast.” 

“I shall. Thank you, sir.” 

Rutherford regarded him, still with that oddly feline smile he had. “My friends call me Lex.” 

Clark beamed. “And I  would far rather be called Clark than Mr. Kent. That merely reminds  me of my father.” 

He rolled  his eyes mockingly. “Fathers can be such troublesome things at times, can’t  they? Good-day  to you, then, Clark, until tomorrow.”

“Good-day – Lex.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ￼Disclaimer: Many of the characters used in this work of fan-fiction are the creation and property of DC Comics, Time/Warner and all relevant subsidiaries. No infringement of copyright is intended, and no income of any nature is being derived from its publication


	7. In Which Agreeable Games Are Played

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clark endures a little teasing about his new friendship, but takes the opportunity to gain some further knowledge of the Luthors.

Despite the vague unease the morning’s talk of a mysterious vigilante had invoked  in him, Clark returned to Adam Street with something deep inside of him bubbling over exuberantly, and not even the rather sudden change in weather  –  rain setting in, in a steady, disheartening drizzle, a little before eleven  –  was enough to depress his spirits. 

This was just as well. That day, he and the young Rosses, plus a few other friends of similar age, had planned on a picnic by the riverside at Richmond, a plan on which the rain, in the most literal sense, had put a damper. However, as it had declared so late, most of the party was already assembled at Adam Street. It was Clark who had the notion, and persuaded Mrs. Ross into it, to have the picnic right there, in the house. 

The servants cleared the furniture from the smaller salon, while Clark and the other boys rounded up every potted plant in the house and set them around the room to obscure its walls and make a pretence at natural greenery. The girls laid out the plaid rugs over the carpets, and unpacked the picnic baskets provided by the kitchen, and if everyone felt a little  foolish at first, Clark’s good humour and shining, irrepressible  smile soon drew them into the spirit of the occasion. In a very short while, they were enjoying themselves quite as much as if they had been out of doors. It was Clark, too, who thought up the pleasingly silly games with which they kept themselves amused, so that the peals of laughter ringing through the house brought answering smiles to the faces of the elder Rosses, and all the staff. 

The satisfactorily overstuffed languor that overcame most of the group by mid-afternoon was no pretence, and the party split into groups with varying interests. The drizzle having temporarily abated, Matthew took Miss Merrivale for a short walk, properly followed by an abigail at a discreet distance  –  it was no secret that these two were likely to be betrothed before the end of the Season. Pete, his other brother William, Jack Coleman and Miss Serena Merrivale settled down to a game of fox and hounds, while Miss  Coleman and Miss Ross, Pete’s elder sister, were engrossed in the latest issues of the ladies’ magazines, poring over the  newest fashions. Amy Ross, the younger sister, at thirteen, would have been too young to go on the picnic, but since it was held in the house, her parents had agreed with Clark that it was hardly fair to exclude her, and the others had welcomed her readily enough. Now, however, she had returned to the schoolroom. This left Miss Lang, and Clark, whom she smilingly challenged to a rubber of piquet, since the last time they had played he had beaten her rather badly and she wanted her revenge. 

For a short while, they played in relative silence, concentrating on the cards in their hands, but then Lana, with a sly little smile, said casually,  “I hear you’re becoming fast friends with my cousin Rutherford?”

Clark looked up with a slight start. “Oh, is he your cousin? I wasn’t aware of that,” he  answered, deliberately not answering her query. 

“There is a distant connection. I think our  great-grandfathers were brothers. However,  I’m more curious about you and Rutherford. He, apparently, is saying that you saved his life.” 

Clark blushed. “I may have been of some assistance in a difficult situation,” he said  diffidently. 

“He seems rather taken with you.” She was unmistakeably teasing him now. “Breakfast at his home and his club, and supper at White’s?” 

“That’s – it’s been – coincidental. We’ve only really met those three times.” 

“So far.” 

“So far,” he conceded, with a shy smile, then asked, with poorly disguised curiosity, “Do you know him well?” 

She thought about it for a moment. “Yes and no. He has always been perfectly charming to me. The connection is close enough that he saw to it I was properly launched last season, and my eighteenth birthday ball is to be held at Rutherford House. We deal quite well to gether, I believe. On the other hand, I couldn’t delude myself into thinking I’m an intimate.” She gave some consideration to her discard, then added, “As a matter  of fact, I think the only  person who could be said to know him well would be his brother.” 

“Lucas Dunleavy? I was introduced to him this morning. He doesn’t seem to like me very much,” Clark said wryly. 

“That’s hardly surprising.” 

He blinked at her.  “I beg your pardon?” 

She dimpled. “Miss Sullivan’s interest in you has been less than discreet.” 

His eyes widened. “Are you telling me that...?” 

“Mr. Dunleavy was trying to fix his interest with her? Yes.” 

Clark made a faint whimpering noise, and hid his face in  one hand. “I’ve made such a mull of things there,” he bemoaned quietly. 

“I take it you have no interest there yourself?” 

“No! I mean, I like her. She’s – well, I enjoy her company. She’s frank, and clever and,  well, rather different  from....” He stopped, and smiled crookedly. “I’m about to put my foot in my mouth again, I think.” 

“Never sing one woman’s praises to another,” Lana advised sagaciously. 

“I’m afraid I’m a lost cause,” Clark sighed, looking exaggeratedly forlorn. 

“All I can say is that it’s a good thing I have no romantic interest in you myself.” 

He winced extravagantly. “Ouch.” 

She giggled. “Clark Kent, if I did, you’d be running a mile.” 

“I’d be quite overwhelmed,” he said dryly. “Please, I know you  have grander prospects  in view than a poor farmer’s son.” 

“Oh, but who am I to disdain what my Lord Rutherford so clearly finds enthralling?” she  queried sweetly. 

He turned quite scarlet, to her delight, and proceeded to make such an appalling mistake in his discards that she won the trick very convincingly. 

“I - I’m trying to rectify the situation with Miss Sullivan,” he said quietly, after a little. “I don’t wish to lose her as a friend, however.” 

Lana recognised that he was serious, and made her answer  accordingly. “I don’t know  how much assistance, if any, I can be there. I like Miss Sullivan myself, and I thought she was  on the way to making a good match with Mr. Dunleavy before you came on the scene. If it’s  any consolation, however, you weren’t  the original cat among the pigeons.” 

“I beg your pardon?” Clark queried, perplexed. 

“For some reason, Rutherford’s father suddenly seemed to take an unusual interest in  her. Then the Season really got underway, and you came to town, and he has certainly with drawn from the lists.” 

Clark was wide-eyed.  “His Grace was paying court to Miss Sullivan? That’s –  he must be  old enough to be her grandfather!” 

“Father, certainly. However, that’s hardly a consideration,” she said lightly. “This is  Lanchester  we’re talking about. A girl on the Marriage Mart would not lightly disdain a suitor of such wealth and status.”

Clark frowned, a little impatiently. “Would you?”

“Please, he’s virtually my uncle!” Lana exclaimed, a little shocked. 

“But you’re saying Miss Sullivan did?” 

“I rather think she saw through him. It’s my belief he was being attentive to her merely  to aggravate Mr. Dunleavy. Without meaning any disrespect to Miss Sullivan, I doubt he would seriously consider her, well, Duchess material.” 

“Why would he pretend an interest, then?” 

“It’s clear you don’t understand how things stand in that family.” 

Lana instructed him in the complexities of the Luthor family relationships. 

“So,” Clark said slowly, “Dunleavy is His Grace’s younger son, but has been made illegitimate by his parents’ divorce, except Lex still recognises him?” 

“Lanchester is saying Mr. Dunleavy was never his son at all,” Lana corrected. “Rutherford’s recognition of his half-brother says the contrary.” 

“What’s that going to do to the succession?” 

“Oh, nothing at all. Rutherford is the only legitimate heir, nobody’s arguing about that.” 

“You know, there are times I’m truly glad to be a simple farmer’s son,” he said dryly. “This sort of business is far too complicated for me.” 

“Still, you might want to remember it.” 

“Why? Other than trying to remove myself from between Dunleavy and Miss Sullivan, which I have every intention of doing?” 

“It is not a good idea to be caught between the Luthors in intergenerational squabbles. To make a close friend of the son is to invite the enmity of the father, and vice versa,” she said evenly, “and it is my impression that, all innuendo aside, you do like Rutherford, do you not?” 

“Yes,” he answered frankly, after a moment. “Yes, I do. I’ve never met anyone quite like him. He doesn’t think intelligence and learning are things to be concealed and down-played.” 

“No, he wouldn’t,” she smiled just a little, and put out a dainty hand to touch Clark’s lightly. “I’m not trying  to get you to change anything. I am merely trying to advise you as to  some of the possible pitfalls ahead.” 

He put down a Queen of Clubs, which effectively ended any hopes she might have had of winning that particular hand. 

“Sometimes I truly dislike this society,” he said quietly. “I’ll be glad to get to Oxford, and the simplicity of pure learning.” 

“It will still be here when you emerge from your cocoon.” 

“I shall be older and wiser, however.” 

It was said so solemnly, she had to chuckle, and when he raised an eyebrow, she said  cheekily, “You’re only going there for three years, you know, not three centuries.” 

“Time is said to stand still amidst the dreaming spires.” 

“Then you’re going to emerge as youthful as you are today.” 

“While you shall have turned into a staid married lady,” he said wickedly. “All dull  propriety.” 

She pretended to pout. “How unkind of you, Mr. Kent.” 

He laughed. “You know very well I’m teasing. I have no doubt, married or single, you’ll  continue to  shine as brightly as you do now.” 

“See, you do know how to turn a pretty phrase when you set your mind to it,” she said  approvingly,  then sighed, viewing her hand with resignation. “You are monstrous lucky at cards, which is most unfair.” 

He took the  tally card from her. “What are we at now?” He did a quick reckoning. “Well, my dear Miss Lang, I’m afraid you owe me seventy-three  thousand, two hundred and eighty-four  pounds, eight shillings and sixpence.” 

She gave a gurgle of laughter. “Just as well we’re playing for imaginary sums, isn’t it? I’d be in debt to you for the rest of my life.” 

“I’d claim that debt, too, if only to punish you for trying to distract me into playing badly.” 

“I had to try  something,”  she protested, eyes bright with amusement. “I didn’t think you’d noticed.” 

“I’m not such a flat as all that. Tell me something, have you ever played cards with your  cousin?”

“With Rutherford?” She laughed again, and white teeth bit lightly at her lower lip. “Don’t remind me! We were  only playing for penny points, but I still ended up losing several hundred pounds to him. Then he was odious enough to reassure me that he never took money  from relatives. Don’t play him.” She revised her opinion. “On second thoughts, do. That will afford me some small revenge for having been fleeced so dreadfully.” 

Clark merely chuckled. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ￼Disclaimer: Many of the characters used in this work of fan-fiction are the creation and property of DC Comics, Time/Warner and all relevant subsidiaries. No infringement of copyright is intended, and no income of any nature is being derived from its publication


	8. In Which A Fencing Lesson Nearly Goes Awry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are times when it can be very difficult to conceal one's secrets.

A little after nine the following morning, Clark was climbing the stairs of a building in the Haymarket to gain access to the rooms which  comprised ‘Monsieur Fouchécourt’s Select  Academy  of Escrime’. In the vestibule, he gave his name to an attendant, along with his hat, gloves  and crop, and then passed through to the first of the three rooms that comprised the fencing school. 

He looked around with interest. This first room was divided into two sections by large screens; to the left was a tiring area, where the fencers could leave their possessions and surplus garments while they exercised, and where the protective clothing was stored, while the right, overlooking the bustling Haymarket, was set out as a comfortable parlour for socialising. 

Beyond this lay the main  _salle_ ,  a long, bright room, four double windows overlooking the street, with mirrors lining the rear wall, and racks of foils, fleurets, epées, rapiers and other swords along the end walls. Here, six or seven pairs sparred, some with an instructor looking on. In one corner, three young men were going through drills, again with an instructor, while others waited their turn. Dotted around the perimeter, other men stood, perhaps also awaiting their turn, perhaps simply observing interestedly. 

The third room, to which Clark directed his steps when he failed to pick out Rutherford from the persons present, was another  _salle_ ,  smaller and simpler, but also much quieter, with only one pair fencing, and three or four others observing. An employee politely blocked Clark at the door, but when he said he was expected by Lord Rutherford  –  who was clearly visible in this room  –  the employee requested him to wait, and went to Rutherford to inform him of  Clark’s arrival. 

Lex looked up towards the door, and smiled on seeing Clark. He nodded to the attendant and, even as the man returned to his post, gestured to Clark to join him. 

“Good morning,” Clark said, as he came up to Lex. He kept his voice soft; there was a  quiet air of concentration in the  _salle_ ,  centred on the fencing pair, and he did not wish to  disturb anyone. “Am I too early?” 

“No, I’m merely observing the master’s latest student.” Lex matched his muted tone. “The boy’s just beginning, but I think I can see what Fouchécourt sees in him. He’s displaying a  keen sense of physical awareness; where his opponent is at all times, where obstacles might lie,  that sort of thing.” 

Clark watched with him for a moment, and after a few minutes began to understand what Lex had meant. Although the young student  –  about his own age, he guessed  –  had  plenty of rough edges that brought sharp reprimands from his teacher, he was quick on his feet, very alert, and swift of understanding. They watched for about ten minutes, then Lex touched his elbow, and when Clark looked at him, tilted his head towards the door in an indication they should leave.

“Is that how you began?” Clark asked curiously,  as they left the smaller  salle. 

“Oh, no, not at all,” Lex chuckled softly. “My father had the best tutors for me in just  about everything from the beginning. I started to learn the art of the sword very early, and I was well taught. However, if  I was good at it then, it was more because I don’t like to lose than  because of exceptional skill. Father also refused to hire any foreigners, regardless of their reputation. Then I suppose you could say I had my baptism by fire, and swordplay in the army  is a very different business from these polite surroundings. That’s where I learnt to fight for my  life, not just for my honour. When I got back, I decided to re-train. I came here, and the Maître  took me on personally. It’s been an education, and I miss his teaching when I’m not in London.” 

“I thought the fashionable fencing master in London was a Signor Cassini?” Clark queried. 

Lex shot him a mocking look. “My dear boy, you have to learn the difference between fashion and quality. Cassini’s good  enough, though too flamboyant for my tastes, but Fouchécourt was a student of the Chevalier de Saint-Georges himself, and there can be no higher recommendation.” 

“The Chevalier de Saint-Georges?” 

“He was a rather extraordinary character at the French Court before the Revolution. I wish I’d met him, but he died a little over twenty years ago. He was a half-breed – mulatto, from the French colonies, but his father was a man of influence, and Saint-Georges was the only son, so he was recognised. He was a true Renaissance man, interested in science, a man of letters and quite a gifted composer, by all accounts, though it’s next to impossible to find any of his music now, thanks to the upheaval over there. However, most of all, he was indisputably the finest blade in all of Europe. I doubt you’ll find anyone to argue that point. He even wrote a book on the subject. I have it; I’ll lend it to you if you’re interested, though it’s a bit dry. So you can see, to be studying with one of his students – and there were not many – is no mean affair.” He smiled a little crookedly. “If you really want to know, five or six years ago, I probably resembled that, more than anything else.” 

He pointed across the large  _salle_ to where a young man was engaging with one of the instructors, fighting with a fierce and rather rough determination. Strength and obstinacy played in his favour, but the instructor was marking points all the time, finding weaknesses with merciless accuracy, aided by the evident fact that his student was losing his temper. Lex looked on with an odd expression, not quite pitying, not quite envying. 

“Do you still wish you were that younger man?” Clark asked quietly. 

“Sometimes, I suppose. I was more honest in those days, at any rate. Fresh out  from  under my father’s thumb, seeking to make my own place in the world, I thought nothing could stand against the simple force of my desires. I’ve learnt better.” He looked up at his young companion. “What about you? You’re where he is now, where I was then.” 

“I think my expectations aren’t as great,” Clark smiled gently. “I don’t care to make waves.” 

He laughed a little. “You shouldn’t have been born such a beauty, then, Ganymede. No one with your looks can pass unnoticed.” He ignored Clark’s scarlet-cheeked  confusion, and  went on. “Come on, let’s see what you’ve got in your fencing arm.” 

He led the way back to the tiring room, and after directing Clark to remove his coat and boots, went to the armoire full of protective garments, hunted for a heavy padded plastron like the one he himself wore, and gauntlets. 

“These should do you,” he said, coming back with the garments and tossing them at Clark. “Turn around, you’ll need help buckling that on.” 

“You know,” Clark said anxiously, “this really isn’t a good idea. I’m only a very mediocre swordsman.” 

“If you’re going to persist in being the most beautiful man in London,” Lex returned –  and although he was standing behind Clark at this moment, the younger man could hear the smirk in the smooth tones  – “you’ll need to learn to defend yourself properly, because your charm isn’t going to protect you indefinitely.” Satisfied that the buckles were properly fastened, he patted Clark’s shoulder. “Good, let’s find you a practice sword. By the way, there’s something you should know about me. I’m a southpaw. You may find that a little strange at first.” 

“A –? Oh, you mean you’re left-handed?” 

“That’s right.” 

“And you learnt to fence that way? Isn’t that a little unusual?” 

“There’s little point in going against nature if you want good results.” 

Clark blinked a little. “In the classrooms where I come from, they try to discourage it pretty comprehensively.” 

“An archaic attitude,” Lex dismissed. “I can, actually, fight with both hands,  but the left  is the natural one for me, and I’ll only use the right if I’m injured.”

“When was the last time that happened?” Clark asked, a shade dryly. 

“Let me see... Vienna, I think, during the Congress. One of my more talented opponents,  and I hadn’t  started my training here at that time. It was a good fight. If I met him today in the street, I think there would be no animosity between us. What?” he added, amused at Clark’s  expression. 

“I think you’re a most unusual kind of man, Lex,” Clark smiled, and then added, “and I also think you shouldn’t be wasting your time with me on the  _salle_ floor.” 

“My time is mine to waste as I please, and I choose to waste it with you,” he said simply,  and headed off towards the racks of swords. Helpless, amused and bemused, Clark followed. 

When a sword had been found for him (Lex was very picky about the choice of blade) Clark was a little relieved not to be facing off immediately. Instead, Lex took him through some warm-up drills, observing his form critically, interspersing suggestions with general conversation in a way that Clark found rather distracting. 

“That’s quite a reach you have there, but you need to go with the lunge a bit more. You’re holding back. By the way, I had a visit from the Runners  yesterday; the other footpad who tried to hold me up the night we met has been captured.” 

Clark straightened. “Really?” 

“Yes. An extraordinary thing. He was found at first light this morning trussed up like a  guinea-fowl on the steps of the Millbank station, and ready to confess to every crime under the  sun, apparently, even some he hadn’t actually committed.” 

“Why would he do that?” 

“Do you remember what Lucas told us yesterday morning? And Portenoy’s tale of a  mysterious rescuer? It would appear something similar happened to our felon. He claims he was apprehended by a monstrous figure in black, who leapt  –  leapt, mind you  –  to a nearby rooftop, and proceeded to dangle the rogue off the edge by one ankle, quite effortlessly, until he swore to admit to his crimes. He was, by all accounts, nearly incoherent with terror. I could  almost feel sorry for the man, though I can’t imagine what he might have been drinking to get into such a condition.” 

“So you still don’t think there’s any truth to these tales?” 

“You must admit it sounds rather fantastic.” 

“I suppose so,” Clark smiled a little.

Lex gave him a sideways look. “Do you know something I don’t?” 

“No, why do you ask that?” 

Lex viewed his limpidly innocent expression somewhat doubtfully, but then shrugged.  “No reason. I’m naturally suspicious, that’s all. Keep your elbow in, you’re leaving yourself wide open.” He moved to face Clark. “Let’s try a few passes.  _En garde_.” 

Crossing swords with Lex amply revealed Clark’s shortcomings  as a fencer. Lex was not really fighting with him, and the ease with which he parried made that abundantly clear. 

“I told you I wasn’t any good,” Clark laughed, after a minute or two, “and you’re playing down to me.” 

“I won’t deny you need some work.” 

“ _Some_ work?” 

“Very well, a lot of work. Still, there are a few very rudimentary errors that even a  neophyte  like yourself should take some trouble to correct, and if you don’t tuck that elbow in,  I promise the next pass is going to land right over  your heart,” he added, with a feral grin. 

Clark concentrated a little better for a few minutes, but it was not long before he lapsed  back into his old, bad habit. He got next to no warning, just a flash from Lex’s eyes, and Lex’s  rapier slid through  his defence to strike the plastron, as Lex had promised, directly over Clark’s  heart. Where the foil should have merely bowed strongly, cushioned by the thick padding of the protective garment, however, the slender blade abruptly snapped about two inches behind  the tip and, carried through by Lex’s thrust, the raw, broken point embedded itself in the  padded breastplate. 

Lex gave a cry of horror, dropping the hilt instantly, and Clark, equally shocked, stepped back just as swiftly. The metal shards clattered to the wooden floor, and Lex was upon Clark immediately, hands reaching for the buckles that fastened the plastron. Several others had witnessed the incident, and at least one other pair of hands came to assist in removing the plastron rapidly. 

“God, Clark! Are you hurt?” Lex gasped. “Please God, say you’re not injured!” 

“No, no, it’s all right,” Clark tried to reassure both Lex, and the others now crowded around them. “It – It didn’t pierce right through.” 

He had to let them remove the padding. By now, all the occupants of the  _salle_ were  clustered around them, parting only to let the dapper figure of the French swordsmaster through. Fouchécourt took the plastron, and fingered the cut, showing that it did indeed go from front to back. However,  Clark’s shirt, plastered to his torso by the heat of his body,  showed no tear, nor any sign of blood, and everyone relaxed somewhat.

“ _Dieu_ _merci_ ,”  the little Frenchman sighed. “I am most sorry for this accident,  _monsieur_ ,”  he said to Clark. “There must ‘ave been a fault in the steel of the sword.” He turned to Lex. “It  was not one of your own,  _monseigneur_?” 

“No, I’d given mine for oiling after our lesson, and picked up one from the racks when Mr. Kent joined me,” Lex answered, still very white-faced  from shock. 

“Please, don’t consider it,” Clark said earnestly. “The protective vest did everything it was supposed to, and kept me safe.” 

“You could have had metal in your face if it hadn’t been a clean break!” 

Fouchécourt was examining the  shards, which one of his assistants handed to him. “It is  very strange. This is an  epée  that was bought not two years ago, and I ‘ave never ‘ad complaints of the maker before.” 

“You may charge its replacement to me,” Lex said tightly. 

“No, no,  _monseigneur_ ,  I would not dream of it. It is my responsibility to ensure that the weapons  I provide are of the ‘ighest quality. I know only too well that it is no manoeuvre on your part that could ‘ave provoked such an accident. I regret deeply the distress caused  to you  and to your friend.” 

Clark reached out tentatively to put a hand on Lex’s arm. “I’m fine, Lex,” he said softly. “Please. It was just an unfortunate incident, and there’s no harm taken.” 

“You will take some refreshment,” Fouchécourt said briskly, “and put this aside. I ‘ave ‘ad swords break on me before. It is rare, but not impossible, merely  inopportune.” 

Lex nodded, and reached for the fastenings of his own plastron. “Yes, I think that’s enough for one day,” he agreed mutedly. 

The crowd around them began to break up. Fouchécourt gave both his pupil and Clark a friendly little pat on the arm, and returned to his small  _salle_ ,  and one of the instructors took away the ripped vest and the shards of the sword. Clark, a little tentatively, helped Lex unbuckle his plastron, even as they both moved in the direction of the outer room. Once it was off, Lex handed it, almost absently, to an attendant, and went to stand in the embrasure of one of the windows overlooking the Haymarket in the salon area of the front room, clearly still very shocked. Unsure of how to handle matters, Clark stood at his shoulder, and after a moment  put a gentle hand against his back in a comforting gesture.

“I don’t think I’ve ever come that close to killing someone inadvertently,” Lex said, at  the light touch. 

Clark had no way of telling him that he had been at no risk. Instead, after a moment, he  said casually, “That rather implies that you’ve killed quite a lot of people intentionally,  you  know.” 

Startled,  Lex gave a bark of laughter, and relaxed slightly. “There’s some truth in that.” 

Unbidden, an attendant approached bearing a tray laden with a decanter of brandy and two glasses, and placed it on the small table just behind them. He raised questioning eyes to the two young men, unstoppering the brandy to pour. 

“Yes, thank you,” Lex confirmed. 

Clark hesitated, but even though Lex’s demeanour had eased somewhat, he was still  visibly shaken, and Clark wanted only to reassure him. 

“Just a small measure, if you please,” he requested of the attendant. To Lex, he said, with a shy smile, “I’m not used to spirits, and especially not at this time of the morning.” 

“You’ll excuse me if I feel the dire need,” Lex said wryly. “God, Clark, if I had hurt you...” 

“You didn’t,” Clark said soothingly. “You reacted so quickly, pulling back. I know that’s what stopped it from going any further.” 

“You’re being very forgiving.” 

“There’s nothing to forgive, Lex. It was an accident.” 

Lex nodded slightly, but his gaze was brooding as he looked out at the street below, and sipped at his brandy. 

“Lunch with me?” he invited abruptly. 

Regretfully, Clark shook his head. “I’m sorry, I can’t.” 

He nodded again, accepting, and tossed back the remainder of his  drink. “Pokal’s yours  to ride whenever you choose. Either come round, or send a message and a groom will bring  him to you.” 

It was clear he was about to leave, and Clark put out a hand to stop him. “Will  you  – May I ride with you, sometimes?”

“I ride early. Seven ‘til eight, usually.” 

“That’s no problem.” 

Pale eyes met his for a long moment, and then the coppery lashes swept down to veil  them, hiding his feelings even more thoroughly from Clark. “I’d welcome your company,” he  said simply. He made a faint gesture towards Clark, cut off mid-way.  “I’m sorry, I can’t stay here just now...” 

Clark watched him leave, regretting that he could not stay with him, but he was expected home for lunch. At this precise moment, if he could not be with Lex he would far rather have been alone, because he was experiencing some very strange emotions but, bound by duty, he walked back to Adam Street, slowly, deep in thought. 

He had accepted that he was attracted to Lex; there was nothing particularly unusual about that, even if he thought he was a prize fool for developing an interest in someone so far out of his class. Yet it was Lex who, strictly speaking, had made the first move, and if Clark still was far from sure whether he had been serious about it, or merely teasing (which he was clearly quite prone to do), the last few encounters had indicated a genuine level of interest. If he came out of this with a friend rather than a lover, well, it was not, perhaps, precisely what he wanted, but it might be the better solution in the long run. However, there was something about Lex that evoked more complex feelings in Clark, which he could not explain to himself very well. He had thought at first that the attraction he felt for Lex was purely physical. It perplexed him now to realise that he was prepared to give Lex his heart, along with his body; that was something he had not anticipated. 

Clark returned home in time for lunch in, yet again, an uncertain mood. As usual, over the meal, he was asked how his morning had gone, and he realised that he was going to have to admit to the incident at the fencing school. It had, admittedly, been somewhat spectacular; since Lex was involved, and there had been a considerable number of other witnesses, it was highly unlikely that the tale would remain untold. It would therefore be foolish to conceal it.

So he told his story, and made light of it until the others were reassured, and merely wondered  at life’s peculiarities. Only Pete’s dark eyes told a different story and,  predictably, after lunch, Clark was dragged off by his friend for a strictly private conversation. 

“What were you thinking of, you sapskull?” Pete demanded hotly, the moment they were alone. “You should have known the blade would have broken if it hit  you with any degree  of force! It’s not the first time something like that has happened.” 

“He moved faster than I anticipated,” Clark said apologetically. “He’s really very good, and there were a lot of other people around, too.” 

“You’re sure he has no suspicion?” 

“Quite sure. By good fortune, my shirt wasn’t torn, so it really looked like the point didn’t fully pierce the plastron.” 

Pete grunted, still visibly disquieted. “Well, all right, but you really need to pay closer attention. It’s bad  enough you persist in going out at night here. It was one thing back at  home, but here in the capital, it’s a different matter. There are too many people altogether.” 

Outwith Clark’s parents, Pete was the only other person aware of the full extent of  Clark’s  extraordinary abilities. Their compass had only become evident over the last three or  four years  –  indeed, still seemed to be expanding, from what they could tell  –  but even at ten, Clark was stronger and faster than any other child of his age. The duck pond episode that had marked the start of his friendship with Pete Ross had also betrayed those gifts to the other boy,  yet Pete, contrary to the Kents’ predictions,  had not viewed Clark as some kind of exotic freak. On the other hand, he had been completely in accord with the Kents that Clark should keep his abilities concealed. At ten, his reasoning was largely selfish; this was a remarkable secret of which he, Pete, had almost exclusive ownership, and that gave him enormous satisfaction. However,  as the boys matured, and Clark’s powers grew steadily, he had seen the wisdom in  trying to let Clark have as normal a life as could be, something that would be rendered completely impossible by the revelation of his abilities. Clark found that, with one good friend fully aware of his true nature, he could be reconciled to this life of constant concealment and half-truths. 

When Clark’s sense of justice had impelled him to try to help the less fortunate, and to  apprehend wrong-doers, it was Pete who had impressed on him the need for discretion, and who had helped him come up with the shadowy disguise to conceal his identity. Over the years, Clark confided extensively in Pete, glad to have a companion of his own age to whom he could speak freely, and so he always listened patiently to whatever Pete had to say, even when he was being berated for carelessness. This did not mean, however, that he was always in agreement. 

“It is a different matter here, you’re right. It’s a lot easier,” he said firmly. “There  are so  many more people, it’s actually simpler to pass unobserved, and tales of abnormally fast and strong men are dismissed as drunken ravings.” 

“Amongst the flotsam and jetsam of London, yes, I’m sure you’re right, but Rutherford  and his ilk are anything but that! Both rumour and your own observation bear that out. Are  you prepared for someone like that to become aware of your differences?” 

“No,” Clark conceded, reluctantly. “It could only repulse him.” 

Wide-eyed, Pete studied him for a few  moments. “You really have it bad, my friend,” he sighed eventually. “Is it truly worth pursuing? That much? What about Oxford? Your career?”

“My whole future is very nebulous, Pete. What career? I’ve only really thought of earning a living – tutor, secretary, estate manager, whatever – in order to put food on my table. I have no vocation. No, I take that back, I have a vocation, but you know what it is as well as I do. I want to do what I’m doing now, help those who need it, and have no means of getting it through normal channels. I want to foil criminals, correct injustices; that is what I want to do. However, I also want to lead a relatively normal life. So I need to find employment, I need to make myself eligible for such – hence Oxford – and I want to enjoy the same things any other young man enjoys. I want to have friends and lovers, to be a part of the world in an ordinary, everyday sense. How can I understand how to help people if I can’t understand and experience their needs? As for my needs? I need to feel as normal as possible, even while knowing I’m anything but, and something that’s very normal for young men our age is discovering and exploring physical relationships.” 

“I can’t argue with that,” Pete smiled a little ruefully, “but if you really were being normal about it, you’d be indulging in a tumble in the attic with some willing maid or servant,  not mooning over the  _ton’s_ most eligible bachelor.” 

“I can’t help that. I don’t think I could do that with a servant, Pete, it  would feel too  much like exploiting them to me. Even if they really did want to, I’d be too concerned they’d feel they couldn’t say no. I need the surety of dealing with a social equal or superior.  Lex  –  Lex  is the first person I’ve met whom I really can’t get out of my mind. Even if there’s never anything physical between us, I still want to be his friend, but I’m hoping there can be more, much more, and he’s the first person about whom I can honestly say such a thing.” 

“Clark, you were at Lana Lang’s feet....” 

“No, no, it’s not the same thing. Yes, she was –  is  –  probably the most beautiful girl  I’ve  ever set eyes on, but  – it’s not personal. I admire her. Actually, I have grown to like her, but my  initial reaction had nothing personal about it. I might as well have been admiring a painting. I  don’t want to know her every thought, to understand what makes her react the way she does,  to know all her likes and dislikes. I do want that with Lex, a close friendship, as close as I am to you, or almost.  Well, maybe close in a slightly different way,” he amended, a little confusedly. 

“In other words, you don’t envisage telling him your secret.” 

“Well – no. That doesn’t mean we couldn’t be good friends, though,” he said defensively. 

“Clark, anyone  with whom you become physically intimate may end up noticing some of  your particularities,” Pete pointed out mildly. 

“Perhaps, but even I’m not going to know that until it happens. I am not prepared to envisage celibacy, let me tell you,” he said,  a touch mulishly. 

Pete eyed him with a complex expression, part amused, part resigned. “Oh well, I  suppose  we’re all entitled to make our own mistakes. That’s also part of growing up, or so I’ve been told often enough.” 

“You’re so sure it’s a mistake!” 

“I’m absolutely certain. He’s going to break your heart. However, I guess that’s pretty normal, too.” 

“Have I ever told you I hate it when you get all logical on me?” Clark asked dryly. “It’s positively offensive.” 

Pete preened a little. “Well, you know, you got the brawn and the beauty. You couldn’t expect to have brains as well.” 

There was nothing for it after that but to make a run for it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ￼Disclaimer: Many of the characters used in this work of fan-fiction are the creation and property of DC Comics, Time/Warner and all relevant subsidiaries. No infringement of copyright is intended, and no income of any nature is being derived from its publication


	9. In Which Music Is Made

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clark learns more of Lex's pursuits, and their friendship begins to attract attention.

Lex entered the reception room of his London home to survey the preparations for that  evening’s musical entertainment.  This was the great room on the first floor that ran the entire length of the house. On this occasion, however, the central partitions were closed, making two, still very substantial, rooms. To the right, the dais at the far end was set for the musicians, and chairs placed for the specially invited audience. To the left, small, round tables and groups of chairs were set around the room, divans lining the walls, while long tables at the other end would hold the refreshments whose preparation was currently being concluded in the kitchen. Footmen bustled about, polishing silver and windowpanes, trimming wicks and setting the candelabra and brackets, and organising the floral decorations, and as Lex passed, eyes scanning the preparations keenly, they would pause in what they were doing to bow briefly. One or two musicians still hovered around the platform, ensuring the right music was set out on the stands in the proper order, but the rehearsal had just finished, and most of their colleagues were now sitting down to an early supper in another room, before getting dressed for the concert. 

It was just after five on a perfect June afternoon. In another hour, Lex would retire to dress, for he was expecting a few friends to dinner at seven. The other guests would begin to arrive around nine, and the entertainment would begin perhaps an hour later. In the meantime  –  and he smiled as he heard voices at his front door  –  he had asked Clark, if he cared to, to come by earlier still. It would seem that Clark had indeed seen fit to turn up a little in advance, and Lex was looking forward, a little perversely, to this meeting of his newest obsession  –  Clark  –  with his oldest, music and music-making. 

He left the ballroom to head downstairs, just as Simmons was greeting his visitor. Or rather, visitors, in the plural, for Clark was not alone. Along with him were James Fitzallen  –  not altogether unexpected  –  and two women, a pretty, if somewhat mousy, girl, and an older woman  whom likeness proclaimed to be the girl’s mother. 

“Fitz,” Lex said calmly, coming forward, “I wasn’t expecting you until later.” His expression warmed subtly as he held his hand out to Clark. “Good afternoon, Clark, I’m glad you  decided  to come.” 

Clark shook his hand, smiling his usual shy smile, but made no answer and merely nodded, with a brief glance towards the other three. He was clearly quite willing to fade into the background while Lex dealt with his unexpected visitors. It was very typical of his thoughtfulness, one of the many reasons Lex had grown to appreciate the younger man for much more than his beauty over the last few weeks. Lex turned to Fitzallen, his expression querying, as he offered his hand. 

“I do apologise for barging in on  you like this, Rutherford, but I thought it was probably  the best time available,” Fitzallen said brightly. “First, may I introduce you to the ladies? Mrs.  Trevelyan, and Miss Nancy Trevelyan  – the Marquis of Rutherford.” 

The ladies curtsied genteelly as Lex inclined his head graciously. Mrs. Trevelyan had a certain degree of assurance to her; her daughter appeared to be terminally shy. They were dressed modestly and discreetly, nothing vulgar about their appearance, though they were clearly of no particular social distinction. Lex could not imagine what could have possessed Fitzallen to bring them to his home in this way; they appeared to be the sort he might normally consider for household positions. 

“Do you remember,” Fitzallen went on eagerly, “that I told you I thought I’d found A  Voice? A  real  voice, the likes of a Bellochi, or a Marcolini?” 

Light dawned. “Yes –  that was before I left last autumn, but yes, I recall. I take it Miss  Trevelyan is the singer in question?” 

Fitzallen beamed.  “Absolutely. Now, I know, I told you back then she was barely  sixteen,  and we agreed that’s no age to be taking to the stage, not with a serious, professional  career in view. Also, I thought her singing teacher was doing a good enough job at home to suffice for a couple of years yet. However, circumstances have changed just recently. The  teacher in question regrettably died. There’s no one suitable to continue her training anywhere  within reasonable distance of her home and, frankly, this would be the worst possible time for her to stop work. I therefore told them to come to town and I would try to arrange an audition with the man whose patronage I had hoped to attract for Miss Trevelyan at a later stage. Rutherford, will you take the time to hear her?” 

“I don’t know whether your timing’s impeccable, or atrocious,” Lex said dryly. “On the one hand, I’m very much in the mood for music-making. On the other, I’ve spent most of the  day hearing one of the finest voices in all of Europe rehearsing in my  home, so I’m not inclined to be tolerant of mediocrity.” 

“I swear to you, Rutherford, mediocrity does not enter into the equation,” Fitzallen said eagerly. “You may have to make a few allowances for youth, but I promise, the voice is some thing quite exceptional.” 

From the corner of his eye, Lex could see Mrs. Trevelyan who was clearly dying to shout  her daughter’s praises, but was biting her tongue in order not to offend a potentially invaluable  patron. Young Miss Trevelyan waited with demure patience, her earlier shyness now muted. 

“Very well,” he agreed abruptly. “One moment.” He moved towards Clark, who had taken a few steps aside. “I can’t resist,” he explained softly, smiling a little ruefully. “Fitz is a  good judge of a voice, normally, and  he’s really been inordinately enthusiastic about this young woman. You may wait in the library, if you wish.”

“No, I’d like to listen in, if you don’t mind,” Clark smiled back. “Not that I know anything about it, but I’m curious as to how this is going  to play out. I came across Mr. Fitzallen and the ladies on Pall Mall. When we realised we were all bound for the same destination, we walked  together, and he’s been singing Miss Trevelyan’s praises to me non-stop,  with a good deal of support from her  Mama. So I confess to a lively curiosity.” 

Lex nodded slightly, pleased, and turned back to Fitzallen. “Very well. We shall repair  to the music room. Simmons, a little refreshment. Elderberry wine, I think.” 

“Yes, m’lord,” the major-domo  bowed. 

Lex led the way towards the rear of the house, and opened the door to a large room of similar size to the library, but with bare wooden floors, and instead of bookcases lining the walls, several large, glass-doored cabinets that held a plethora of manuscripts. There was also a small collection of various keyboard instruments, and several instrument chests. Normally, other than the stools for the keyboards, the room would otherwise be pretty bare. Right now, it was serving as the green room for the musicians, and there were two large racks, which held their costumes, as well as several chairs, instruments cases, sheets of music and other odds and ends lying around in cheerful confusion. 

There were even some of the musicians present, which Lex had not quite expected, thinking they would be at dinner. Fortunately, they were all in a perfectly respectable state of dress. In particular, Signor Davide was in the room, and Lex promptly went to him to explain matters. The celebrated tenor perfectly understood, and when Lex diffidently suggested he might wish to hear the girl himself, Davide expressed a gratifying degree of interest. Content, Lex turned back towards his visitors, gesturing them towards the pianoforte in the far corner. 

Fitzallen quickly drew forward a couple of chairs, for himself and Lex, near the piano,  then, noticing Davide’s attention, a couple more, a little further distant. He did not introduce  any of the other musicians to the Trevelyans, not wanting the ladies to be distracted or put off in any way. Mrs. Trevelyan took seat at the piano, and from the document-case she had been carrying extracted a sheaf of music, and young Nancy took position to the right of her mother, on the far side of the instrument. 

When the first notes struck  up, Lex closed his eyes fleetingly. “I wish John Gay had never been born,” he murmured,  soft but heartfelt, and Fitzallen choked back a laugh. 

“It’s good stuff for young singers,” he whispered back. 

Lex just rolled his eyes, but settled down to listen. After a few minutes, his attention was caught. Fitz had not been wrong; this was indeed A Voice. Very young, still, lacking in power and stamina, but the quality was remarkable. The shy country mouse had all but disappeared; Miss Trevelyan sang with confidence and grace, and she possessed an instrument of a  rare tonal quality, a rich, warm sound that caressed the ear with pleasing sweetness. Lex wanted to test her further, and when the two songs from  _The Beggar’s Opera_ were done, he got up and went to the piano, holding his hand out for the music.

“May I see what else has been prepared?” When the sheets were put into his hand, he scanned them quickly. More Pepusch, Handel, Carissimi... he wanted to hear something more  modern, less stylised. He  turned to the girl. “What else have you worked on? Any Mozart, or Gluck?” 

It was the mother who answered. “My lord, those parts –  girls dressed as boys  – they’re not proper for a gently bred young girl!” 

“Yet you would have her sing ballads from  _The_ _Beggar’s Opera_ ,  in which none of the  female characters is, if you’ll pardon the expression, any better than she should be?” he countered. “Forgive me for saying that you have an odd sense of the proprieties. Furthermore, if  your daughter is to take to the stage as a career, these are niceties she is going to have to set aside sooner or later. There are many trouser roles in opera  –  pray do not flinch at my plain speaking, madam, it is foolish  –  because at one time, there were no women on stage, only men.  That has changed, but some of the greatest parts for Miss Trevelyan’s type of voice will always be travesty roles.” 

He turned his attention back to the girl. “However, if you have not worked those, what of sacred music? Other than Handel, that is.” He smiled a little. “Forgive me, that is a personal bias speaking there. I do not deny his quality, I just don’t like the music particularly.” 

He got a shy, dimpled, little smile back from the girl that suggested she shared his opinion.  “I have studied the Bach Passions and Oratorios, my lord,” she offered. 

Her mother butted in once more. “Oh, Nancy, his lordship doesn’t want to hear that old stuff!” 

Lex turned a gelid glare on her that froze her where she sat. “Madam, I’ll be the judge  of what  I do, or do not, wish to hear.” 

“But I didn’t bring any of it with me,” Miss Nancy added regretfully. 

“That is not a problem.” 

Lex went to one of the cabinets, flinging open the doors, and  after a moment spent scanning the shelves, pulled out a large, leather-bound tome from which a great many sheaves of paper protruded slightly, a little messily. He set it on the desk surface of the cabinet, and pulled out the loose leaves, sorting through them until he found what he wanted, and then returned to the piano with the main book, and the leaves he had selected. The leaves, he proffered to the girl. 

“Here, do you know this one? If not, do you think you can sight-read it? That’s a skill  you should have, and it won’t be easy in this case.”

She took the  sheets and studied them, and her face lit up. “ _Have_ _Mercy, Lord?_ Oh, yes,  I have studied this.” Her face fell. “I’m afraid Mother won’t be able to play it, though. She doesn’t know it, and it’s too difficult for her to sight-read.” 

Lex dismissed that.  “I’ll play for you. Stand in the curve of the piano, so I can see you.”  He made a slight shooing gesture to Mrs. Trevelyan, for her to vacate the seat in front of the keyboard. He ignored her somewhat scandalised glance, his attention wholly on the young  singer. “I don’t suppose you’re able to sing it in German?” 

The girl shook her head apologetically. “No, my lord, I’m sorry.” 

“That’s all right,” he said mildly. “You will need to learn foreign languages though, at  least phonetically. Now,  if I’m taking this too slowly for you, push ahead, I’ll follow. If you’re really going too fast, I’ll stop, because that would just kill the number.” 

He loved this piece. Of all the numbers in the  _St. Matthew Passion_ ,  this alto aria was by far his favourite,  Peter’s heart-wrenching  plea for understanding and compassion after his thrice rejection of Christ, set to the lilting rhythm and the minor modality of the  sicilienne,  with an elaborate and soaring violin  obbligato  part. Of the singer, it demanded faultless breath control and perfect phrasing. The keyboard reduction for rehearsal was complicated, but he knew it well, and could easily play and listen to the girl at the same time, and now he was hearing everything he had hoped to hear. She did not have the control, but the quality of the timbre was perfect, velvety, yet light at the same time, clear and warm and yearning. Her pitch was true, and she had the flexibility to negotiate the tricky ornamentation not only comfortably, but stylishly. He could feel from her the same sympathy for and with the piece that he felt himself; for the first time, she was not just singing, but interpreting. Even as she performed, he could feel that stillness settle around the room, a clear indication that she had captured the attention of every person present. 

She was tired when they were done, not surprisingly. It was a long aria, and very difficult, but he had heard what he needed to hear. One more test, he thought, and then he would discuss her future with Fitz, and maybe Davide, if the tenor was interested. There had been some applause when they finished, and he gave her a reassuring smile. 

“All right. One last thing. Don’t worry, it won’t be as hard as that. Just a moment.” 

He again repaired to his shelves, returning the Bach, and fetching out another volume, this one quite new-looking. He leafed through it quickly, considering and rejecting some titles, hesitating over others, then returned to the piano. 

“This is meant to be a sight-reading  test,  but I’ve chosen a book of folk-song settings,” he explained to Miss Trevelyan, “so if you know the one I’ve selected, I would rather choose  another. Here,” he put the book in front of her, “take a look at this. This is ‘Bonnie  laddie, Highland laddie.’  Is it familiar?”

She looked over the score for a moment, then shook her head. “I’ve heard of it, but I’ve never actually heard it, nor sung it.” 

“Then take a good look at it, and when you’re ready, we’ll give it a go.” 

While she did so, he went to have a word with a couple of the musicians still loitering, and within minutes, a violinist and cellist had taken up position by him, scanning their parts swiftly. This was one of the things Lex loved about professional musicians here in London  –  they could sight-read so swiftly and so accurately. Nowhere else in Europe had he come across that particular talent to such an extent. There were plenty of better players, but that ability to pick up an unknown piece of music and play it competently within minutes seemed to be  almost unique to these isles, and that, judging from Miss Trevelyan’s performance, went for the  singers, too. 

Mrs. Trevelyan was rather sulking at having had matters taken so thoroughly from her control, but it did not take much effort  on Lex’s part to sweeten her, and send her off with her daughter to join the musicians and singers from the King’s Theatre at supper, while he talked  things over with Mr. Fitzallen 

“I’ll sponsor her, James, she’s worth it, but she’s got to be patient. I think she’s got the  common sense for that. The question is, has her mother? You know the family, I suppose. Are  they looking for her to be the breadwinner?” 

“No, the father’s got steady work. As far as I know, they’ve made do. There was cer tainly  enough to pay a local singing teacher. I don’t think that would be true if the girl were to come to London, though. Apart from her teacher’s fees, there would be the matter of respect able board and lodging, and a living allowance. There may be the question of lodging the  mother, too.” 

“No, that I won’t have. She’ll do nothing but hold the girl back. I’m sure between us we  have enough contacts to find the girl respectable lodgings, and a decent chaperone. I will certainly fund the training. I was thinking  of Nathan, for the time being?” 

Fitzallen opened wide eyes. “Isaac Nathan? Byron’s friend? Weren’t you just agreeing to help her maintain her good name?” 

“Don’t be an idiot, Fitz. Nathan taught the Princess Royal; he’s always known how and when to keep his hands to himself. Furthermore, I can promise you, Miss Trevelyan’s not his type.” 

“Aye, but who’s she likely to meet in his company!”

“He will look after her interests if he wants to earn his fee,” Lex said dismissively. “I can  make  it worth his while. The point is, he’s the best vocal practitioner in London. He will give her stamina and technique. Then, in three or four years, if she’s been diligent, I suggest we try sending her to Garcia in Paris.” 

Fitzallen beamed. “Oh, that  would be beyond marvellous! You have the contacts  there?” 

“I do.” 

Across the room, Clark had gone from surprise to surprise. In the first place, while he had known that Lex loved music, he had not realised that he played any instrument. When he sat down at the keyboard and played for the hopeful aspirant, Clark had been astonished. Lex was more than just an amateur; he had a high level of technical ability allied to an acute sensibility. The music came across as a sublime and stately dance between  voice and piano, Bach’s  counterpoint perfectly clear, yet perfectly integrated. More than that, Lex was sensitive to his  partner’s needs; he had put the girl where he could see her, and Clark, watching them, could see Lex adjust subtly to the singer’s requirements.  Similarly, in the trio accompaniment to that Scottish folksong, he had swiftly found a balance within the three instruments, and then  balanced that to the singer’s needs. Clark had always known Lex was subtle; this was merely  confirmation of just how far that finesse extended. If, afterwards, there was a moment when Clark could say he had fallen in love with Lex, this was it, because if Lex could do this for complete strangers, albeit practitioners of an art which he clearly adored, then what he could do for a lover could only be something wondrous. 

After the Trevelyan ladies had left the room, and Lex, Fitzallen and Signor Davide were putting their heads together to adjudicate, Clark began to look around the room more carefully, and left his seat to investigate the glass-fronted cabinets. He was not surprised to discover they contained music manuscripts. They were ordered meticulously; by category, then by composer. The missing  tome, from which Lex had chosen Miss Trevelyan’s sight-reading  test, turned out to be a volume of Scottish folksong arrangements, published by Thomson of Edinburgh, and arranged by Ludwig van Beethoven. Clark had heard talk of this musician, but as someone almost revolutionary, his music turbulent and excessive. The charming folksong setting he had just heard hardly corresponded to that image. There was much else, however, from ancient manuscripts of mostly Italian composers of whom Clark had barely even heard, like Monteverdi and Gabrieli, to the most contemporary publications from all over Europe, of works by Rossini, Beethoven, Cherubini and a host of others equally unfamiliar to Clark. 

The instrument cabinet held violins or lutes, wind instruments and odd percussion, all sorts of weird and wonderful objects.  It was almost like being in a musical Aladdin’s cave, and  some of the pieces, Clark was not even sure they were actually instruments. There was one, for example, in a glass-topped display case, all by itself, an extraordinary looking thing, appearing to be a long marble cane of singularly delicate shape, with an ivory knob clearly painted to  match the marble. Yet Clark could see vents carved into the cane, and there was something odd about that ivory ring about two-thirds of the way down its length. In addition, it was clear that the ferrule was detachable, and to top it all, right along side the cane lay what was obviously its wooden sheath. Why any kind of cane other than a swordstick would require a sheath, he could not imagine.

He was so intrigued by this peculiar item that he was not aware of Lex coming up behind him. 

“What is it that fascinates you so?” 

Clark started a little, then smiled. “This,” he said, indicating the case. “What on earth is it? I’ve been trying to imagine why you’d have a marble walking stick in a musical collection.” 

“Because it’s a musical instrument,” Lex said simply, opening the case and lifting out the slim cane. “Two, as a matter of fact. (1)” Clark’s wide eyes brought a smile to his lips. “I’m not  joking. Look, see  – at this end,” he indicated the pommel, “it’s a flute.” He brought the cane to his lips, and softly blew a short scale. “Then, if you take this ring off, and turn it around, and you take the ferrule off, you find a reed and,” matching the movements to the words, “abracadabra, you have an oboe. I won’t demonstrate, I’ve never learned the knack of reed instruments.” He chuckled. “You should see your face at this moment.” 

Clark rolled his eyes. “I can imagine. Of what possible use can such a  thing be? Also,  I’ve never heard of a flute made of marble!” 

“Oh, it’s not marble. Here.” He held out the instrument to Clark, who took it gingerly,  and was surprised at its lightness. Clark examined it more closely. 

“It’s painted. What is it made of? Wood?” 

“The horn of a unicorn,” Lex said mysteriously. Clark just gave him a sceptical look, and he chuckled again. “Narwhal horn, actually. Once upon a time, they were taken for unicorn horns.” 

“Narwhal! Good lord....” Clark hastily laid the cane back into its case. “That thing must be worth a king’s ransom.” 

“Mmh,” Lex agreed mildly. “About eight hundred pounds.” 

For a moment, Clark was rendered quite speechless. When he did find his voice again, there was perhaps a faint note of disapproval  in his next remark. “I still can’t imagine what use it might be.” 

“None really, I suppose,” he conceded. “They are perfectly functioning instruments, but not exactly practical, I admit. However, it’s a beautiful item, and exceedingly rare. That  was  enough for me.” He repositioned the instrument correctly, and closed the case. “It’s time I changed for dinner. Keep me company?”

Clark nodded, smiling, and followed him from the music room and up two flights of  stairs to Lex’s room. 

“Are you going to sponsor Miss Trevelyan?” he asked, as they climbed the stairs. 

“Yes. I think Fitz is right about her qualities, and that she’ll make a fine singer with the right training. What did you think?” 

Clark smiled a little sheepishly. “I thought  she had a very pretty voice, but what do I  know?” 

“Enough to judge her kindly,” Lex smiled faintly, opening the door to his chambers. 

The last time Clark had been up here, he had been in an adjoining room, but he found that it was quite similar to this one, at least in overall design. The décor  –  pale leaf green, with rose-patterned fabrics  – had been perhaps a little dainty. Although Lex’s room was just as light,  the silver-grey scheme, with accents of deep blue, had a more sober feel to it. Two Cordovan leather chairs sat before the fireplace, matching stools tucked on either side against the wall, with a card table between the chairs. To the left of the hearth was a delicate Chippendale wall table, with a silver tray, cut glass decanter, and four wineglasses. Lex gestured towards that table. 

“That’s a very passable Madeira. Pray help yourself, and have a seat. I shouldn’t be long.” 

His valet was already waiting, and came forward to help Lex ease out of his perfectly fitted morning coat. Clark went to pour glasses for both himself and Lex. 

“What return do you get out of it?” he asked, bringing the second glass to his friend. 

“Return?” Lex gave him a slightly sharp look, but there was nothing but genuine curiosity in Clark’s voice or look, and he relaxed as he accepted the glass. “Do you mean financial? None. I’m not going to seek reimbursement from the girl’s future earnings. I suppose you  could call it an emotional investment, except that sounds as if I had a personal interest in her,  which I don’t. Yet there will be a satisfaction in seeing her reach her full potential, in watching  her become celebrated for her musical talent, in knowing that I had a part in creating what she  will become.” He tossed back the remainder of his wine, and added wryly, “Call it an exercise in intellectual vanity, if you will.” 

“A costly exercise,” Clark smiled faintly. 

Lex put his glass down and made for his dressing room, beginning to unlace his shirt as  he went. He chuckled a little. “Does the fact that I’m prepared to spend eight hundred pounds on a musical novelty item tell you nothing about me?” he asked, disappearing into the adjoining  room, though leaving the door open. 

Clark opened his mouth to answer, then thought better of it, and just grinned to himself. 

“I’m not expecting you to be polite about it,” Lex’s voice floated out to him, and he  laughed out loud. 

“Actually,” he said, “I was thinking that your first violin downstairs was right.” 

There was a moment’s silence. “I beg your pardon?” Lex asked, perplexity evident in his  tone. 

Clark grinned again. “I was talking a little to the leader of tonight’s band. Did you know,” he went on in an apparent  _non sequitur_ ,  “that there was a moment during your conversation when you, and Mr. Fitzallen, and Signor Davide all had the exact same expression on  your faces? It was rather striking.” 

“You are the strangest boy I’ve ever met,” Lex said in some exasperation. “I’ll believe  you, but what the deuce does that have to do with the first  fiddle?” 

“Well, we were talking at the time, and he remarked it, too. When I expressed some  surprise, he said there was a very simple reason. Opera-lovers, he said, were all the same  under the skin.” 

“All the same how?” Lex asked suspiciously. 

“All mad,” Clark answered, with a huge grin. 

There was a crack of laughter from the dressing room. “I see.” 

“Was he right?” Clark asked, a little daringly. “I mean, I know you’re an opera-lover,  but  does one have to be mad to be so?” 

“No, but it helps,” Lex replied promptly, startling Clark a little. 

“In what way?” 

“Well –  take that Rossini opera I told you about, that I saw in Naples two years ago.  You’ll be hearing a couple of arias from it tonight. It’s set in Ancient Greece, just after the  Trojan  wars. The principal tenor is in love with the principal soprano, who’s in love with the  second tenor, who’s in love with the principal mezzo, who’s the widow of the Trojan hero  Hector and whose only concern is for the safety of her young son  –  who doesn’t  sing, thank  God. The mezzo agrees to marry the second tenor to protect the boy, and the second tenor promptly jilts the soprano to whom he was betrothed, so  she  agrees to marry the first tenor if  he’ll murder the second tenor. In the end, the first  tenor does indeed murder the second; the first soprano, of course, turns around and promptly curses him, so he goes mad, and as anyone  who knows their Greek epics can tell you, the child’s going to end up dead anyway. It’s all very  messy. Could any right-minded  person take any of that seriously?”

Clark was laughing heartily, as much at Lex’s droll tone as at his actual words. “When you put it that way...” he agreed. 

“Of course,” Lex added, emerging from the dressing room, eyes twinkling, “that’s the  beauty  of the whole affair. When the music’s good enough, who cares what kind of nonsense  the characters are getting up to? Unless, of course, the libretto is truly, terrifyingly bad, which can happen, regrettably. This particular example is based on Racine,  mind you, so it’s a fair  effort.” 

Clark managed  –  or at least, he hoped he managed  – not to lose countenance at Lex’s  appearance, but he felt his breath catch, and his pulse redouble. Lex always looked particularly handsome in evening wear, but there was something about the regimental-style formal trousers that he had chosen tonight, slim and straight-legged, that was especially flattering to him. He was still in waistcoat and shirtsleeves, the waistcoat a subtle gleam of silver-grey silk brocade, unbuttoned as yet to allow him ease of movement as he sat before the dressing table to tidy his hair and tie his cravat. Raffaele stood to hand, half a dozen snowy white neck-cloths draped over one arm in readiness. 

“At least you’re not saying it all makes perfect sense,” Clark  finally said, in a commendably even tone. 

“In the opera house it does.” Lex brushed out the coppery silk of his hair and caught it back in a silver clasp. “Anyway, you get the point now. You don’t have to be crazy to love the opera, but it helps. Mind you, in my opinion, theatre is just as bad and doesn’t have the advantage of pages of glorious music.” 

“You’re telling me you’re mad,” Clark grinned. 

“Nor’ by nor’-west,” Lex smirked, taking a neck-cloth  from his valet and beginning the painstaking process of tying the perfect fall. 

“How many instruments do you play?” Clark asked curiously. “I had no idea you were so proficient a pianist.” 

“If I hadn’t been born who I am, I think I would probably have ended up a professional  musician. Instruments  – let’s see. Keyboards, of course. Guitar and lute. Violin. And the flute. As I said earlier, the reed instruments still escape me, and,” his brows drew together in a  delicate,  if slightly abstracted frown, “I regret to say  I find something inherently vulgar about  actually playing brass instruments. I’d much rather listen to someone else do so than attempt it myself.”

“And you say I’m strange,” Clark shook his head, smiling. 

On the third attempt, Lex had the folds of his cravat creased to his satisfaction, and Raffaele, laying aside the remaining cloths, picked up a pewter casket sitting on the dresser and presented it, open, to his master. Lex picked out the amethyst intaglio seal ring he habitually wore in the evening, and a pin, also an amethyst, but this a single, transparent, faceted stone no larger than his little fingernail, but of a particularly fine, pure shade. He deftly pinned it into place, and stood, smoothing down his shirt and fastening the waistcoat. Raffaele now had the evening coat ready, a short-waisted, short-tailed coat that, like all his garments, fitted Lex to perfection, without crease or wrinkle. 

Clark had long since formed the opinion that there could be no handsomer man in London  –  indeed, no handsomer man anywhere. He just wished he had the courage to approach Lex as something more than a friend, but he had seen for himself that Lex kept his friends and his lovers quite separate. For all the gentle flirting and teasing he got from Lex, there was nothing that had yet convinced him that he, of all people, would be able to bridge that divide that Lex imposed in his own life. They were friends, growing closer with every meeting and every day; Clark did not wish to sacrifice that in any way, no matter how deeply he was attracted to him. Which consideration did not prevent him from spending many a waking hour wondering how to induce Lex to drop his inhibitions once again, as he had done so memorably on their first meeting. 

With a last glance in the floor-length mirror, to ensure that everything was as it should be, Lex was ready. He smiled across at Clark. 

“Shall we go down?” he suggested. “All the activity today has given me quite an appetite. I know I don’t need to inquire about yours.”

 

&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&

  


Having felt a subtle prickle at the back of his neck some minutes earlier, Lex was not unduly surprised when a footman made his way discreetly to his side and informed him in an undertone that his father was downstairs and wishing to speak to him. Lex nodded, murmured a brief instruction to the servant, and when the next piece was finished, slipped out of the room to make his way downstairs. 

Lex had told the footman to inform his father that he would be down presently. If the  duke chose to remain,  he was to be shown into the library, and a bottle of one of Lex’s best b urgundies was to be opened for him. On entering the library, therefore, Lex found his father ensconced in one of the wing-backed armchairs, sipping thoughtfully at the ruby liquid contents  of Lex’s fine Bohemian crystal. He looked up as Lex entered, and raised the glass a little to his  son in a gesture of appreciation.

“You do your guests proud, Alexander, if this is a typical example of your hospitality.” 

Lex smiled faintly, going  to pour himself a glass of the wine. “No, sir, it is not. Not that I believe my guests have anything to complain about, but I don’t serve twelve year-old  Gevrey Chambertin  to just anyone. To what do I owe this visit?” 

“I can’t simply visit my son?” Lionel enquired mildly. 

“It’s scarcely your custom.” 

“If I’d realised your cellar held such treasures, I might have remedied that much sooner.” 

“The quality of wine served varies in indirect ratio to the frequency of visitation,” Lex  said blandly, taking the seat opposite his father. 

Lionel laughed soundlessly. “Very wise of you. I will refrain, in order to savour the  occasion  more. Did you choose this yourself?” 

“I know a good  _négociant_ in Beaune, and he knows my tastes. Periodically, he sends me  samples of bottles he thinks I might enjoy, and I place my orders accordingly.” 

“Eminently practical of you.” 

“So – if I may inquire again, what brings you here tonight?” 

“I’ve not seen you since you returned to London, Alexander. Can’t a father  be inter ested in his son’s doings?” 

“You were at the Montgomerys’ rout, and the Devonshires’ Spring Ball, sir. You could have both seen, and spoken to me, on either occasion.” 

“As could you, my son, yet you chose not to.” 

“I find we deal much better the less we actually see of each other, sir,” Lex stated simply. “I’d like to keep things that way, if possible.” 

“Is that why I was excluded from this soirée of yours tonight? I confess to feeling a little  vexed that I received no invitation. On  the whole, I agree with you; we deal better at arm’s  length. However, it has been customary for each of us to at least pay lip service to the conventions, and issue invitations. The other usually has the good sense to decline or accept as practicality dictates. I was not pleased to be informed at my club tonight that my son was hosting an evening at which were to be present several prominent social figures, not excluding  one or two members of the Royal Family.”

Lex sighed. “It is not a purely social occasion, sir.” 

“That was the other titbit of information with which I had some problems. Fundraising? Since when have we ever involved ourselves with such mercenary activities? You’re a little too  preoccupied with matters that smell of the shop, Alexander.” 

Lex gave him a studied look. “I am no more concerned with the shop than you are. I am  an investor. I make money work for me. As for patronage  –  and that is what this is, make no mistake  –  it takes many forms, including that of persuading others  to follow one’s own exam ple. Sometimes, they need only a little encouragement to do so, or to follow where the social  lions lead.” 

“Social lions? Dear boy, you’ve invited Cumberland! You know perfectly well that he can’t carry a tune in a pail! In fact, as I recall, you told me that yourself a good ten years ago!” 

Lex had to bite back a laugh. “Very true,” he acknowledged. “However, I have also  invited Lady Isobel Merriott tonight. Lady Merriott is vastly enamoured of the opera, and since His Grace has just recently become vastly enamoured of Lady Merriott, and is seeking ways in  which to impress her, well....” He made an expressive little gesture with his hands. 

Lionel chuckled appreciatively. “Is that so? I withdraw my objections, Alexander,  well  done.” 

“I try. As to the other matter, I assume you feel I’ve made you look foolish before your  acquaintances. It was certainly not my intent, and if they had applied a modicum of insight to the matter, they would have understood that for themselves.  You do not frequent the King’s  Theatre these days. I know you prefer the Concerts of Ancient Music in Hanover Square, and I would not inflict this  ‘modern  rubbish’  on you needlessly,” he said lightly, with a faintly mali cious glint in his pale eyes.  “Rest assured there will be an invitation to the only other major function I plan on holding here before the end of the Season.” 

Lionel raised an eyebrow. “So rumour is true there, too? You’re hosting Miss Lang’s  coming-of-age  celebrations?” 

“You object?”

“N-no,” Lionel answered, slightly hesitantly. “She is a relative, not too distant, and the  only female of her age in the family right now. I’ve neither seen nor heard anything against her, and she’s certainly a beauty; no discredit to the line  there. However  – you’re not interested...?”

Lex burst out laughing. “No, sir, have no fear.” 

Lionel relaxed imperceptibly. “Good. I have nothing against the girl, but you can  certainly do a great deal better for yourself. That said, however, beware of Nell Potter. I  assume she’ll be acting as your hostess.” 

“Of course, it’s her right.” 

“Certainly. However, she’d ask nothing better than to catch you for her niece, by fair means or foul.” 

“She’d not be the first. I believe I have the measure  of Lady Potter. Please do not concern  yourself, I’m not going to find myself caught in the parson’s mousetrap that easily.” 

“That’s not to say I don’t wish to see you married.” 

“I’m not ready for such a step.” 

“Nor do you spend enough time in circles where you might meet suitable young ladies.” 

“There are three or four eligible females upstairs right now.” 

“And, from what I’ve heard, one very ineligible young man.” 

“I’m aware of my responsibilities, sir,” Lex said coldly. “The line will not  end with me.  However, I see no need to get myself shackled so quickly.” 

“He’s a commoner, Alexander. He will not understand our ways.” 

“Our ways? What are those, if I may ask? I would as soon spend time with a gently  spoken and well-educated commoner than a foul-mouthed and voluntarily illiterate nobleman. Sooner, even. That, however, is not something I would expect you to understand. You were,  after all, an intimate of the Barrys, were you not?” 

It took Lex’s practiced eyes to see it, but his  father did flinch, almost imperceptibly. He had indeed, in his younger days, been one of the circle around the notorious Earls of Barrymore; Hellgate and his brother Cripplegate, only recently deceased, not to mention the youngest son, the debauched parson Newgate, and their wanton, profane sister, Billingsgate. Even  now, years after their dissolution, former members of some of Barry’s more  outré  clubs were reluctant to admit to their adhesion. 

“We all make mistakes in our youth,” Lionel said quietly. “I would not see you waste  your time on someone unworthy  of you. You have a duty...” 

“I have always done my duty –  even duties you thought I should not undertake, to my  King and country,” Lex said. 

“The front line was no place for the next Duke of Lanchester.  You were so young. You could have been killed, or  – maimed.” The shudder that went through him made it all too clear  that he thought the second option by far the worse of the two, and catching the contemptuous look Lex threw him, Lionel knew he had only lost ground in his arguments. He changed tack.  “Alexander, I am not getting any younger. I would like to see the succession secure.” 

Lex rolled his eyes extravagantly. “Oh, please, Father, you’re not trying to play  that  card, are you? You’re still two years short of fifty, and you’re in quite remarkable physical condition. It’s as well I’ve never had to live off my expectations of being your successor, be cause, quite frankly, my creditors would have been very unhappy. I fully expect it to be at least another twenty years before I step into your shoes. Plenty of time to find a wife and start breeding. You sowed your wild oats with Hellgate, and I prefer not to even imagine exactly  what form those took. By comparison, I’m a sober fellow indeed, and I’ll thank you to leave me  to my pleasures for the time being. You know very well the greatest likelihood of scandal from  me is if I shoot the wrong person. Though if I do, you may also rest assured it won’t have been without good reason.” His gaze sharpened maliciously. “How is Mr. Senatori, by the way?” 

“The situation is not at all the same, Alexander,” Lionel said repressively. “I married, married well, and have an heir.” He finished his glass. “Dominic has made a full recovery. I did, however, impress upon him the foolishness of offending you.” 

“Did you? I could almost feel sorry for him. To displease one of us is bad enough, but both?” Lex stood. “Unless there is anything further you need to say, I should be returning to  my guests.  You’re welcome to join us if you wish, of course.” 

“No, you’re quite right, I couldn’t stomach that caterwauling you call music these days,” Lionel drawled, standing in his turn. “Your wine, however, makes up for whatever your entertainment might  lack. When is Miss Lang’s ball to be held?” 

“A week next Tuesday. You should be receiving the card any day now.” 

“I shall make a point of attending. Good night, Alexander.”  


“Good night, sir.” 

Lex waited until the front door closed on his father, and then made his way back upstairs, pensive. As usual, Lionel Luthor was thoroughly informed on all points that mattered to  him. That he had not known the identity of the Duke of Cumberland’s latest  _inamorata_ was  irrelevant; Lanchester paid little attention to the  _amours_ of the Royal Family, except as they touched on his own circle. He clearly knew, however, that Lex was spending a great deal of  time with Clark, and he knew Lex well enough to believe that Lex’s interest could not possibly  be purely platonic.

It was not, of course. Lex stopped in the doorway of the concert room, easily picking out the tall figure from the crowd. If nothing could make Clark come to him physically, Lex rather thought he could be content with the friendship that had grown so quickly between them. He would always wonder what things would have been like if he had just pushed that one kiss a little further, completed the seduction, but he had found someone who seemed not just to understand him, but empathise with him to a degree he had never known before. He appreciated Clark, for his intelligence, his humour, his serenity  –  but, oh God, he desired him, too, as he could not recall desiring anyone before! 

At that precise moment, as if hearing his name called, Clark turned his head to look directly at Lex. It was impossible to conceal anything; Lex knew that in that instant all his hunger for the beautiful young man was visible in his eyes, if not his face, and he knew that  Clark’s eyesight was very keen. Sure enough, the colour mounted in Clark’s cheeks, a soft blush  mantling his peach-tinted complexion, yet he did not look away, and for the first time, Lex saw an answer to his own desire in the wide, blue-green eyes. Clark looked like a trapped bird, and yet, if the cage was opened, it seemed as if he wanted only to fly straight to Lex. Lex did not know how to read the conflicting signals he was getting from Clark; all he knew was that he had seen a response on a purely physical level, where previously Clark had been all but oblivious, or at least painfully shy. Some hidden door had opened tonight; the virginal Ganymede had become fully conscious of what was being offered. Lex knew he still had to wait, but now, he knew, the wait would not be eternal. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) I didn't invent this instrument, it really exists. Just at the time I was writing this story, one (there are only about six of them, as I recall) went up for auction at Sotheby's, and it caught my attention.￼
> 
> Disclaimer: Many of the characters used in this work of fan-fiction are the creation and property of DC Comics, Time/Warner and all relevant subsidiaries. No infringement of copyright is intended, and no income of any nature is being derived from its publication


	10. In Which A Ball Is Held

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clark finally makes his move, and matters are clarified, though not just for our protagonists.

Some days later, Rutherford House again blazed with light, and the square outside was filled with a great coming and going of carriages. Richly dressed ladies and gentlemen passed into the house, and from the open first floor windows came the sounds of music, laughter and chatter. None who had been invited to this ball had refused, and there were many who had not, despite their best efforts, received an invitation. It was very rare for such an event to be held at this house. Since Rutherford was still a bachelor, it would not have been considered quite the thing for him to host such an occasion on his own. This, however, held on behalf of a young female relative and co-hosted  by that relative’s eminently respectable aunt and guard ian, was an entirely different matter, and the  _ton_ thronged to the evening. 

In other words, Miss Lang’s birthday party was a huge success. The next day, those who  had not been invited would shake their heads and say that they had heard it was a sad crush, but no one else would be fooled. Those were precisely the requirements of a truly successful evening. The dinner beforehand, counting some two dozen carefully selected guests, would be spoken of afterwards in terms of hushed awe, so outstanding were the dishes prepared, and the wines consumed. The refreshments served during the ball were of the finest, while champagne and champagne ices flowed without restraint. 

The full length of the great ballroom was open now for dancing, with music from the best musicians in London. On the same level, the rooms adjoining the ballroom, set at right angles at either end, held the refreshments. At the rear of the house, the two outermost rooms were set up as card rooms, while the central one was open simply as a sitting room, but with the French windows open to the rear balcony and the stairs down into the walled garden behind. The upper floor was cordoned off, with silk ropes barring the stairs, but downstairs only the library and the music room were locked. Footmen, resplendent in immaculate livery, stood at every corner, ready to assist the revellers. 

The Rosses were not the kind of guests who liked to arrive excessively late. In consequence, when they did arrive, the reception line was still in place on the half-landing, Lady Potter and her niece, with Lex a step or two behind, greeting their guests as they arrived. The hostess was looking handsome as always, in a dark blue silk gown, matching dyed egret feathers nodding lightly from a sapphire clasp set in her hair. Lana, however, was a vision to stop even the most jaded roué in his tracks. Her tunic dress was pure white satin, simple and demure in cut as befitted a maiden, but a three-quarter-length over-tunic of palest pink gauze shot with silver was allowed to float lightly over the dress, held in place with deep pink velvet ribbons crossed over the breast. The hem of the dress was embroidered, some three inches deep, with a band of tiny silver and pale pink flowers, a decoration echoed in the small, puff sleeves, and cleverly  taken up in the strands of pink and white myosotis woven into Lana’s  lustrous, dark hair. At her throat, ears and wrists, delicate twists of pearl and moonstone, set in  white gold, gleamed softly. When Clark barely had the presence of mind to say good evening, and wish her many happy returns, she dimpled up at him flirtatiously, clearly amused, and let him pass on to Lex.

“Put your eyes back in your head, Kent,” Lex murmured dryly to him, “and your tongue  back in your mouth. Drooling does not become  you.” 

Clark laughed. “I wasn’t drooling,” he protested,  equally quietly. 

Lex looked unconvinced, so Clark changed the topic, while he still had the chance to talk  to Lex. “How was dinner?” 

That earned him an expressive roll of the pale eyes.  “Don’t go  far,”  Lex said, “I’ll be with you in a minute.” 

Indeed, a moment or two later, Lex excused himself from the reception line, and came upstairs to rejoin Clark. 

“I think my hand was going to fall off if it was shaken one more time,” he complained  humorously.  “Have you recovered?” 

“Recovered?” 

“From your heavenly vision.” 

Clark blushed, but rallied. “Come on, Lex, don’t tell me you haven’t seen the exact same expression on the face of just about every man who has walked in here?” 

“Well, now that you mention it...” he conceded, a little amused. “Not a few women,  too. Still, I thought you were over her.” 

“There was never anything to get over, but you have to admit she looks particularly beautiful tonight.” 

They were still standing on the first floor landing, looking down the staircase, and conversing in low tones. Lex surveyed the little group on the half-landing. 

“Well, yes, not bad, though, God knows, it took some doing to get Nell –  Lady Potter  – to accept my suggestions.” 

Clark  opened wide eyes. “You dressed Miss Lang for tonight?” 

Lex gave him a sideways look. “You make that sound positively obscene. No, of course I didn’t. I did, however, suggest a different  _modiste_ from Nell’s usual. Who’s fine for Nell, but in  my opinion  always wants to overdress the girl like a wedding cake.”

“Why would Lady Potter object to that?” 

Lex grinned briefly, teeth showing sharply. “She didn’t consider it suitable having her  niece dressed by one who probably supplies my barques of frailty,  when I have one in tow.” 

Clark choked back  a laugh. “You wouldn’t do that!” 

“As a matter of fact, I would. Supplying dresses to the town’s courtesans doesn’t stop one from having excellent taste. I wouldn’t patronise the woman if I didn’t approve  of the work she did, and she knows the difference between a lady of quality, and a bit of fluff. As, I think, she has proven admirably tonight. However, Nell is doubtless going to remain tantalisingly mysterious  about the identity of her niece’s dressmaker.” 

Clark had a flash of insight. “The jewels – I’ve never seen Miss Lang with those gems before. Was that your gift?” 

Lex nodded, with a sly smile. “Those diamonds of her mother’s are far too showy for her at this age, and the rest, that I’ve seen, is just trumpery.” 

“A princely gift, Lex.” 

He got a sharp look for that. “Are you implying that I was declaring intent? Don’t be foolish. It’s a family trait; we give lavish gifts, if we give at all. As to intent, I believe Nell has  finally accepted that I have none regarding Miss Lang, which is partly why dinner was so tedious  tonight.” 

Clark relaxed. “Was it really that bad?” 

“You have no idea! Thank God, I have an excellent chef and  sommelier.  I believe that now Nell has accepted she will not be able to bring me up to scratch, she has set about seeking alternatives. Unfortunately, if tonight was any example, she has picked on the most mind-numbingly boring samples available. Not that Miss Lang is any great luminary, but still, I almost  feel sorry enough for the girl to take a hand myself.” 

“Matchmaking, Lex?” Clark queried, amused. 

“Why not? I know any number of perfectly eligible young men. I’m sure I could do better for her than her aunt, especially as she doesn’t seem to be showing  any clear preferences of her own.” 

“Why would you bother?” Clark asked, knowing Lex never did anything he did not wish  to.

“She’s a nice enough chit.” He hesitated for a moment. “Besides, you like her, well  enough to want to see her happy. Forgive  me, there’s something I need to attend to.” 

He was gone before Clark could say anything, leaving the younger man speechless at the  implications of Lex’s statement. Then a huge smile broke over his face. He knew he was no  doubt grinning like a fool, but he could hardly help it. He had been waiting for some kind of sign; it could not be more obvious than this. 

From that point on, Clark’s whole being was focused solely on Lex. Oh, he managed to  function perfectly adequately. He had no wish to embarrass the Rosses, or Lex himself, so he smiled and made himself agreeable, danced the right dances with the appropriate people the correct number of times, conversed, and listened, remembering to nod at the right times, ate and drank with pleasure and moderation, but all the time, he remained aware of Lex. It was as if Lex was a magnet, and Clark the iron. When Lex disappeared from the ballroom, and did not return within fifteen minutes, Clark knew instinctively that Lex had gone to one of the private areas of the house for a little respite from the crush, and that if he was to talk to Lex, this was the moment. 

Clark had had the run of the house for weeks, and if Lex had wished to exclude even him, he would have told his servants so. As it was, when Clark quietly checked with one of the footmen whether Lex was upstairs, or in the library, he was equally quietly directed upstairs. He waited for a moment when he would not be observed, and slipped upstairs, using just a touch of his unusual speed capabilities to ensure he passed unnoticed. 

Although it was more usual to place bedrooms to the rear of a house on a square like this one, to reduce the impact of noise from the street, here, because the house was oriented north to south, they lay at the front, to catch the maximum amount of daylight. To the rear of the house, therefore, lay two small dayrooms, and a large central lounge and reading room. Clark slipped silently into the room, prepared to leave unnoticed if his presence turned out to be undesired. 

Lex stood at one of the windows, looking down over the rear garden, in which over- heated revellers strolled for a few moments’ relief from the crowded ballroom. There was no  light in the room, just the bright moonlight from a perfect midsummer’s eve. Lex seemed very alone yet, at the same time, not discontent. 

He was clearly aware of a new presence in the room, turning his head a little, but not quite turning round. 

“It’s only me, Lex,” Clark said softly. 

He saw the corner of Lex’s mouth curve  upwards slightly, before he looked back out the window. 

“Fleeing the throng, Clark?” 

“I was about to ask if that’s what you were doing?” Clark returned, smiling softly. He  crossed the room to stand directly behind Lex, so close Lex would barely have had to take a  step backwards to be leaning against Clark’s broader frame. Lex did not so much as twitch at  the proximity. 

“Maybe a little,” he acknowledged with a wry little smile. This close, Clark could see his  reflection in the windowpanes.  “I’ve never really liked crowds, or large parties,” he went on. “It reminds me too much of the functions at my father’s home, when I was little. After I’d been duly shown off to the guests, I’d always run off and hide. The instinct’s still there.” 

“That’s why you never stay long at Almack’s, or any of the balls at which I’ve seen you,”  Clark commented, enlightened. 

“Yes, mostly. Mind you, sometimes I’m just bored,” he added, a laugh in his voice. 

“Tonight’s a huge success, at any rate.”  


“Of course.”  


“Lex!” 

Lex chuckled. “I thought you knew by now that modesty’s not my strong point.” 

“I thought you had some measure of decorum,” he teased. 

“I can’t imagine why. You experienced my lack of decorum the first time we met.” 

It was the perfect opening.  “I’ve been hoping to experience it again ever since,” Clark  said huskily. 

Lex did not pretend not to understand. He was very still for a moment, then turned around to face Clark. 

“Are you sure?” he asked. 

“Very sure.” He slid his arms slowly around Lex’s slim waist. “I’m sorry it took me so long to realise it.” 

“You needed only  to  ask,” Lex said, whisper-soft, then his hands were clasping Clark’s  face, drawing it down to his own.

Lex’s mouth was gentle at first, but when Clark responded eagerly, drawing Lex’s body  to him closely, Lex intensified the embrace. Clark felt, with a slight shock, a tongue probe lightly at his closed lips, and he opened his mouth instinctively.  When Lex’s tongue entered his  mouth, he wondered that he did not swoon from the heady taste, and the intimacy of Lex in his mouth. When a gentle sucking sensation conveyed to him that Lex would welcome reciprocation, he complied, tentatively at first, then more surely as he experienced the warmth and  savour of Lex’s mouth. He did not care that Lex’s long fingers had found their way into his black  locks, sending them into disarray; all his being was focused on their kiss, so sweet and hot. 

For the first time since his abilities had begun to develop, he felt as if he had found his rightful place. What had startled him so that first night, with that first kiss, now felt so right and  natural he wondered how he had ever done without. His body’s response was intoxicating; his  blood pounded in his veins, almost deafening.  Lex’s scent, subtle and spicy, filled his nostrils,  and his taste, a blend of fine wine and something for which Clark had yet to find a label,  swamped Clark’s taste buds. The sleek, firm body in his arms was a study in contradictions,  at once yielding and demanding, and he was drowning in a welter of sensation, new to every fibre of his being. 

He knew only that when the kiss broke, which it did only because Lex was pushing against him gently, he was gasping for breath  –  gasping, he who was never short of breath.  Lex’s breath, too, was short, but he was laughing silently, eyes bright and fierce with exultation. 

“Well, my Ganymede, have I made up for my original, premature approach?” he asked,  satisfaction fairly radiating from every pore. 

Clark laughed  back, softly. “Yes, Lex,” he admitted, dipping his head to steal light kisses from Lex’s willing lips. “Tell me something –  you must have known you could have had me that first night, and any time since then. I may be inexperienced, but you are not. I know I was  – obtuse, but why did you not make a move?” 

Lex stroked through his black hair. “That is precisely why. I always wanted more from you than just one night’s pleasure, and for that, I had to be sure that  you  knew what you wanted. Knew and  understood. Therefore, you had to come to me. I don’t consider it wasted time, though,” he added, with a little smile. 

“No. No, it hasn’t been,” Clark acknowledged with an answering smile. 

They kissed again, long and deep, and again it was Lex who broke, panting and laughing.  “Lord, Clark, don’t you need to breathe? You pack a potent package, my friend, a man could  faint from your kisses. I can hardly wait to discover  the rest.” 

“No need to wait...”

“Yes, there is,” Lex contradicted him gently. “This  is neither the time nor the place for  us to begin something. No, don’t look at me like that. I’ve already told you this wasn’t going to be just another fling. If it had been, we’d have made it to bed weeks ago. This is the start of  something special.  I don’t believe we met by accident; we have a destiny together. I want  everything to be perfect for our first time. This, with four hundred guests downstairs, and more  than half the night gone, is not what I call perfect.”

Clark had to admit he  had a point. “So what is perfect?” 

“I was going to talk to you about that anyway. You know I’m leaving town in a few days?” 

Clark nodded, suddenly worried. 

“It’s my habit to invite a small party of friends home for the first week or so in July.  I was planning on inviting you anyway. I hoped that maybe away from the gaze of society, you  might be encouraged to make your move,” he admitted, with a wry little smile. “Now, I’m  suggesting you leave with me, and stay for the summer, until you have to prepare for the start  of term. You had no other plans for the summer, did you?” 

“Not specifically. The Rosses have rented a house in Cheltenham, and will return to London at the end of August. It has always been assumed I’d continue to stay with them.” 

“But you could make other plans?” 

“Yes, probably. I’d have to let the Rosses know....” 

“Of course. I assume you’d be writing to your parents, too, at least so they’ll know where you are. Otherwise, you have no other commitments, do you?” 

“I-I suppose so.” He had never quite thought of it in those terms, and this suddenly seemed like an adventure far more momentous than any of his forays into London’s underworld. It certainly set his heart pounding far more wildly. 

Lex felt his hesitation.  “Clark? I know it’s a lot to ask of you, but...” 

“It’s not that.” He smiled suddenly, radiantly. “I just don’t quite know how to say yes without seeming pathetically eager.” 

Lex laughed up at him. “I have no problems with pathetically eager, especially  if it  means I get you all to myself.” He kissed Clark lingeringly. “I want that for us, want us to have the time to savour things between us. I’ll speak to Ross myself, if you’d like.” 

“He’d probably appreciate it, if only as a gesture of courtesy.”

“Could you be ready to leave in four days? If you have everything prepared, my servants will collect your luggage and take it up to the Park without halt. You’ll find all your things  unpacked and ready for use when we get there. Just keep aside enough for two nights on the road. I have my usual stops  on the way there; it will be no problem to bespeak extra rooms.” 

Clark smiled mischievously. “You’re not going to ravish me at a wayside hostelry? 

“I plan on ravishing you in my own bed, where we can  spend all night, the next day and  the night after again, if need be, without distraction or interruption,” Lex said intently, and watched with delight as Clark’s skin flushed with colour. He ruffled Clark’s black locks affec tionately. 

“Come, if we’re  to go and talk to Mr. Ross, we both need a little tidying up. A comb, and  a fresh cravat.” Taking Clark’s arm in his, he led the way to his own rooms, where such amenities would be readily found.

&*&*&*&*&*&*& 

From the shadow of an alcove, Lionel Luthor watched, his face expressionless, as his son approached Mr. Ross and began a conversation with him. It was inaudible from here, but Lex was clearly exercising all the considerable charm at his command. Beside him stood the Kent boy, and the only appropriate adjective  for him would be ‘glowing’. It took a practiced eye to  see it, but Lionel could tell that Lex had changed his cravat. That was not, perhaps, particularly unusual, but he was also fairly certain that Kent, too, had a fresh cravat, and one tied by different hands than those which had fashioned the folds at the start of the evening. 

Lionel had not intended to linger this long. He had come for dinner, and thought to stay just long enough thereafter for proprieties. Dinner had been excellent, as always  at Lex’s table,  but the company was a little tedious, though it was reassuring to see that Nell Potter was at least  looking elsewhere than in Lex’s direction for a husband for her niece. Lex, too, had  evidently been bored, though had, of course, been careful not to let it show. Lionel knew, because he had learnt over the years that the only way he was ever going to find out what was  going on in his son’s mind was to pay very close attention to him. Had he not been watching in  such a manner, however, he  might not have seen Kent’s arrival, and Lex’s reaction to it, and it had set Lionel’s hackles on edge. He did not care for what he observed, not at all. 

He had had no objections to Lex’s pastimes before. Young men need to spread their  wings, and he never  trusted those who did not. Lex’s taste in lovers was usually quite sound;  nothing flashy or vulgar about any of the men or women with whom his name had been linked, no scandalous scenes or acrimonious partings. That was all quite normal, and there would be time enough after he had done the necessary and assured the continuity of the line for him to give free rein to his indulgences. It was also hardly surprising that Lex would be attracted to  someone of Kent’s spectacular beauty. He had always liked  beautiful things, and the boy was  admittedly exceptional.

However, there were two things that currently disturbed Lionel. The first was that Lex was now twenty-five, or would be in a few days, and Lionel judged that it was high time he settled down with a family. This was not a new concern. Ever since Lex had resigned his commission, hale and whole despite the risks he had taken  –  and Lionel still shuddered at the thought of what might so easily have been  –  Lionel had been pushing him to find a bride. He himself had been married at twenty-two, after all. He had no fears that Lex would choose an unsuitable woman; his pride was too great for that. He did, however, fear that Lex would not choose at all, despite what he had said about knowing his duty, and that led directly to his second concern  –  young Mr. Kent. 

Lionel had never known Lex to become friendly with any of his lovers. Oh, he was all that was amiable with them, but they had no part to play in his life, and rarely intruded in his social interactions. They were nothing to him;  a little time, a little money, some pleasure, but when they left his bed, he usually forgot about them. The Kent boy appeared to be something  of a departure from the norm. Lionel kept a close eye on Lex’s comings  and goings, whenever possible, and knew of all their meetings. They rode together several times a week, they had  been seen at White’s, at Lex’s club, at Manton’s shooting gallery, at the Vauxhall gardens, and  at various playhouses. If they should meet at  some function, or at Almack’s, they inevitably  spent time in close conversation, usually over a hand of cards. They lunched or breakfasted together frequently and, apparently, Kent more or less had free entry to the house whenever he chose. If indications just now were anything to go by, Lionel guessed that he would be  seeing Kent at Rutherford Park in July. Kent was becoming thoroughly entrenched in Lex’s life,  and Lionel did not appreciate that at all. 

Lex showed no particular reverence for his name or the estate he was to inherit. He did not feel the attachment to Lanchester that Lionel knew, did not respect the Luthor name to any great degree. He was proud, not for his heritage, but for what he himself had achieved, and he had achieved much. He was amassing a huge fortune at an almost obscene rate. If things continued  apace, Lex’s personal assets would outstrip Lionel’s, the Rutherford estates greater  than the Lanchester ones. That was galling to Lionel, for with fortune came influence, and while Lex seemed currently careless of what influence he had, that would not last much longer. Lex liked to shape his own world; once he realised just to what extent he could do so, there would be no holding him back. 

Lionel would have been happy had that energy and focus been turned towards Lanchester, and the family, but it was not. He had tried to beat devotion to his estate and name into  Lex, as it had been beaten into Lionel, but Lex was too much his mother’s son, and Lillian had  always been distressingly independent. If Lionel had not taken steps to force her hand, she would doubtless never have married, but gone on living with Pamela Jenkins, heedless that her estate and title would pass to some feckless Irish cousin, wholly unsuitable to become Lord Rutherford, save for an accident of birth. Lex was entirely capable of the same kind of folly.  Lex’s passions ran deep, he was the all-or-nothing  type. That was why his previous affairs had  been so insignificant, but it looked like Clark Kent was turning into quite a different proposition. Lionel had no doubt the boy was as virginal as he appeared; when he gave himself to Lex, it would be completely, as any young person whose first experience combines passion with affection is inclined to do. That could be an intoxicating sensation, even, perhaps, enough for Lex, in turn, to commit himself more deeply, and Lex was anything but fickle.

No, the Kent boy looked to be a danger. If it seemed that he was turning into a fixture, Lionel would have to take steps. Oh, he had no intention of harming Lex; he was his heir, after all, and although Lionel was still young enough to become a father again, it was not a prospect  he particularly relished. He had been far more shaken than anyone had known by Lex’s  rebellion all those years ago. He would not risk that a second time, not unless it became unavoidably necessary. However, there were other ways to achieve his goals. 

Musing over his options, Lionel left the ball. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Many of the characters used in this work of fan-fiction are the creation and property of DC Comics, Time/Warner and all relevant subsidiaries. No infringement of copyright is intended, and no income of any nature is being derived from its publication


	11. In Which A Summer Idyll Begins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clark visits Lex's country house, and their relationship progresses to the next stage.

Lex smiled faintly  at Clark’s exclamation as Rutherford Park came into view. It was a fine  day, and the façade of the house was bathed in sunlight. Lex sighed inaudibly as he saw the staff spill out the front door to line the steps. Clark, fortunately, had not noticed, too absorbed in taking in the handsome Tudor building and its elegant park. 

“How lovely!” he said, turning an enchanted expression to Lex. “Is this where you grew up?” 

“Alas, no. I grew up at Lanchester Court, in the West Country. This is where my mother grew up, though.” 

“How can you bear to leave here? It’s wonderful.” 

Lex chuckled a little. “Have pity on the city boy, Clark. I crave animation and excitement. Not that I’m not very fond of this place, but I’d go mad if I had to stay here all  the time.  However, it is my refuge when London grows too hot and unpleasant during the summer.” 

“I would live my life the other way around –  most of the year in a place like this, and the town only for a month or two. This is such a home as I would never  leave.” 

They had arrived before the main entry, and dismounted. Lex passed his reins to a waiting groom, and indicated for Clark to do the same, then turned his attention to the assembled staff. A small, middle-aged woman, standing a little forward, curtsied as he approached. 

“Welcome home, my lord.” 

“This is Mr. Kent. As I wrote, he’ll be my guest for the summer. Clark, my housekeeper,  Mrs. Jenkins, and my butler, Mitchell. Anything you require, one or the other will be able to provide.”  He  watched benevolently as Clark shyly greeted his senior staff, then addressed  himself to Mitchell. “Have our bags arrived?” 

“Yes, my lord, early this morning.” 

“Good. Mr. Kent and I will be taking a tour of the  premises; have someone notify us when lunch  is ready.” 

“Certainly, my lord.”

Lex turned to Clark. “Are you up for the grand tour?” 

“Willingly,” Clark smiled. 

Although the initial impression of the building was very harmonious, in fact, it was distinctly lop-sided, the original symmetry having been disturbed to the east by the addition of a magnificent chapel, illuminated by wonderful stained glass. Clark looked at the glass and the ribbed ceiling in astonishment. 

“How did this survive? Is your family Catholic?” 

“The Rutherfords were, at least up until my grandfather’s youth, or so I’ve been told.  The Luthors, if they ever were, settled firmly in the Anglican camp shortly before the Civil War.  We’re an opportunistic lot, we tend to make sure we’re always on the right side.” 

“By which I take it you mean the winning side.” 

“Naturally. If asked, I would probably say I was agnostic. I have little time for any form  of organised religion, though I have been known to show my face in church on occasion. However,  that doesn’t prevent  me from appreciating the quality of works inspired by such  religions.” 

The prospect from the north façade  –  the front of the house  –  opened out onto rolling parkland, with a splendid lake bordered by willows, and centennial oaks casting their majestic shade over smooth lawns. Closer to the house were informal flowerbeds, growing richly coloured tiger lilies, delicate alyssum, and thick, scented clumps of lavender. There was a more formal rose garden, a symphony of reds and golds, and traces of older gardens, as well as, behind a perfectly trimmed, high, privet hedge, a kitchen garden of extravagant proportions. To the east, the park turned into woodland, and beyond that into farmland. At the far end of the lake was a delightful summerhouse, designed in the shape of a Greek cross, two floors in height with a domed roof. Inside, Clark could dimly see that it was richly painted and decorated. 

“What is this used for?” Clark asked, entranced. 

“I gather it was some sort of summer banqueting room, at first.  My records say it was built maybe a century after the body of the house itself, around the 1650s. However, when I  took possession, it had been used as a dovecote for some time.” He looked around the walls himself. “I thought it seemed a bit of a  pity to waste such a décor on birds, so I had it restored.  I’ve used it for summer parties myself, but lately,” he turned a sultry gaze on Clark, “I’ve  thought it might serve in other ways, affording us some much-needed  privacy.” 

Pink-cheeked, though smiling, Clark refrained from comment. 

Entry to the house was gained through a stylish Palladian portico, clearly a more recent addition to the uneven rose brickwork of the rest, but highly effective nonetheless, and which revealed a hallway of comparatively small dimensions, but adorned with a magnificent classical staircase in white marble. The walls were white-panelled, and the relatively low ceiling of the hall was decorated in beautifully ornate white plaster caissons. Lex directed their steps to the right, into the west wing, where the whole ground floor was occupied with a long gallery entirely clad in white Portland stone, with a black marble trim, and ornamented with potted orange and lemon trees, interspersed with the occasional classical statue. Like all citrus trees, flower, fruit and bud bloomed simultaneously, and the perfume in the air was enchanting. The long room gave off an air of utter tranquillity, and the dark, glossy, green foliage made it seem like some magical interior garden. It was here that the butler found the two young men to tell them that lunch was served. 

Although there was a splendid salon on the ground floor, the table there was designed to seat a minimum of twelve people, so Lex had opted to have lunch served at the small, round table in the library on the first floor. This room was of less grandiose proportions, and had an intimate feel thanks to the book-lined walls. Clark had smiled on seeing the handsome, walnut-finished Broadwood piano in one corner. 

“You live in this room, don’t you?” he asked, teasingly. 

Lex smiled wryly, acknowledging the point. “More or less. You don’t mind eating here?” 

“Not at all.” He added softly, “You would seem very distant from me at that great table  downstairs.” 

As the servants returned with the first dishes, Lex made no answer, but his gaze was hot  on Clark’s face as they sat at the small round table. 

“What was your other home like?” Clark asked curiously, as they settled in. 

“Lanchester Court? It was always fairly grand,  but about twenty-five years ago, my father took it into his head to rebuild the place. He engaged a prestigious Italian architect for  the job, and now it has become this rococo extravaganza. It’s very handsome, I’ll admit –  my father always does things in style  – but it’s a bit too much of a  pièce montée  for my taste. Also, living in a perpetual building site, as was the case when I was little, became somewhat wearing.  On the other hand,” he added, with a faint, reminiscent smile, “it was a  splendid place in which  to get up to all sorts of mischief.” He touched the small scar that marred the line of his upper lip. “That’s where I got this, falling off the scaffolding around the great fountain in the forecourt.” 

Clark grinned at him fondly. “I imagine you were a real handful, as a child.”

To his surprise, Lex’s smile faded, leaving an odd, unreadable expression. “No, not really,” he said. “It was severely discouraged from the start, and I’ve never had to learn a  lesson twice. Most of the mischief I got into remains, to this day, a secret between myself, my brother, and a couple of servants who left Lanchester Court when I set up house for myself. Of  course, splitting my lip in such a fashion was not one of my better efforts at discretion.” 

“I know only what I’ve been told, but it must have been difficult for you when your brother was sent away,” he said, more seriously. 

“I lost the only real accomplice I’d ever had. Looking back, I sometimes wonder if that was not also part of our father’s  plans. He did not like our complicity.  I wasn’t aware of it  at first, but as we grew up, the bond between us was growing stronger, and I became increasingly  conscious of the fact that Father disapproved.” 

“Why? It can’t have been because he truly believed Dunleavy isn’t his child. You don’t look at all like His Grace, but I do see the resemblance with your brother.” 

Lex gave him a slanted smile. “Do you? I know very few people able –  or willing  –  to say  that. As for me, I’m the image of my mother. There’s a fine portrait of her in the Oak Gallery, I’ll show you later.” 

“And you don’t want to answer the question,” Clark said shrewdly, a little amused. 

Lex sighed. “He wanted me to depend only on him. Clark, I don’t really enjoy talking  about  my father. As I’m sure you’re aware, we do not exist on the best of terms.” 

“I have been told that, but with me, surely it doesn’t matter? I know who he is, of course, but we’ve never actually been introduced, and I don’t see that changing any time soon.” 

“You’re quite wrong there,” Lex said dryly. “Do you know why I have a house-party  at  this time of year? It’s because it’s my birthday, on the 5th...” 

“Yes, I know that, too.” 

Lex eyed him dubiously. “Clark, if you’ve committed some extravagant  folly, I shall be  annoyed with you. You’re giving me the only gift I desire from you – yourself.” 

Clark blushed, but said, “I have brought a gift, but I don’t think it’s an extravagance, truly. Just something I hope you’ll enjoy.” 

Lex put out a hand  to cover Clark’s, stroking the broad appendage lightly. “I’m sure I’ll enjoy everything you bring me.” 

Clark turned his hand under Lex’s to catch his fingers, and just smiled  brightly.  “You  were saying, about the house-party?”

“Yes. I invite guests at this time of year so that I don’t have to be alone with my father when he pays his inevitable courtesy call to me on my birthday. He’ll be here for dinner, and  will sleep overnight, so you will most certainly make his acquaintance then. He is, usually,  mindful of proprieties, and will refrain from passing comments in polite company.” He smiled crookedly at Clark’s concerned expression. “Not exactly what you think a family should be, I imagine, eh? A far cry from your own.” 

“I was a foundling,” Clark said. “A gypsy couple on their travels found me originally, and they brought me to England. Then they fell mortally ill while staying on the edge of the Kents’ farm, and when they died, the Kents took me in. I didn’t speak  English  at all; I didn’t  even speak the same language as the gypsies who first found me. Absolutely nothing was known, or could  be found out about me, and yet they still took me in, and I don’t think any trueborn son could  have been more loved than I have been. The fates have been very kind to me, in delivering me  to the Kents. A man couldn’t wish for warmer, more generous parents.” 

“I had no idea,” Lex said, his tone compassionate. 

“It’s not something that comes up much. I do honestly think of myself as their son. My  mother could not bear a child of her own, so all her maternal affections were turned towards me when she found me in need. They are my parents, to all intents and purposes, and I would  not have it any other way.” 

“Are you not curious as to your origins? Do  you recall any of that language you spoke  before learning English?” 

“Not a word, and no, I’m content with what I have. I would all beings could be as  fortunate.” 

“Are you missing them?” 

“A little, sometimes,” Clark admitted shyly. “Sometimes it’s  just the  –  the regularity of  farm life. There’s something reassuring about that sort of quiet, steady routine, especially  compared  to a hectic place like London. Other times, I think I just miss my mother’s apple pie.  She makes the  best  apple pie,” he informed  Lex earnestly, though impish humour danced in his eyes. 

“You know that if you wish to invite them here, you may?” 

Clark blushed.  “I don’t really think I want my parents looking over my shoulder while I –  while we  – when we’re having....” 

“I wasn’t proposing that they be invited into the bedroom,” Lex said dryly.

“No, I know, but just being in the same house....” 

“I don’t know.” He was just being mischievous now. “You might find there’s a certain  illicit thrill in it. Add a little spice  to your first forays into unknown territory?” 

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” he said firmly. 

“Well then, shall we proceed with the tour?” 

“Lex,” Clark said in a tone of great forbearance, “your house is beautiful, but there’s  only one room  I’m really interested in now, and that’s your bedroom.” 

Lex laughed huskily, and got to his feet, holding his hand out to the younger man. He commented,  “You know, I was trying not to rush you into bed?” 

“Your restraint has been positively awe-inspiring,” Clark mocked lightly, taking Lex’s  hand as he stood. 

Lex just shot him a smouldering look, and led him off to the west wing of the house. 

The master suite was in the west tower, on the second floor, which it occupied in its entirety. It was reached via the Oak Gallery, so they paused there briefly to view the portrait of Lillian Rutherford, and Clark saw that Lex was, indeed, the very image of his mother, almost as if Lionel Luthor had had no hand in his fashioning. They did not linger, however, and proceeded up to the tower. The two bedrooms lay north and south. Clark could tell from the depth of the west wall that it held the dressing rooms, and probably bathrooms, for both chambers. The east side was necessarily blank, since it adjoined the body of the house, but there was a doorway recessed behind a curtain that certainly led to the attics and allowed the servants discreet access to this level of the house. A similar doorway, set in the west wall, to allow servants into the dressing rooms without going through the bedchambers, matched it. 

“That,” Lex said, indicating the south-facing room, “is yours. Your trunks will have been  unpacked and the contents put away in there. If you need to be alone at any time, and you find the public rooms occupied, then you may always come here  –  both rooms combine bedroom  with sitting room. However,” he smiled a touch slyly, “you expressed an interest in my room, which is this one.” 

“It is where I expect I’ll be sleeping, after all.” 

Lex chuckled at his demure tone, and pushed open his door. He was not surprised when Raffaele immediately appeared from the dressing room to the left. His valet had almost certainly been repairing the ravages packing wrought on his clothing. 

“Leave us, Raffaele,” he said lightly, “and see to it we’re not disturbed before dinner 

time. However, you can tell the staff we’ll be wanting the bath in a few hours.” 

Raffaele bowed. “When shall his lordship be wishing to dine?” 

“Half past eight.” He glanced back at Clark. “Do you think you can hold out until then?” 

Clark did not want to say what he thought  –  that Lex would probably be keeping him too occupied to think of food  –  in front of the manservant. 

Lex’s eyes danced with laughter, though he let nothing in particular  show on his face as  he turned back to his valet. “Maybe nine,” he amended, his tone casual. 

“I will have a tray placed in the other room in case you require something a little earlier,” Raffaele said calmly. He sketched a bow, and disappeared back  into the dressing room. 

Lex calmly locked the outer door to the room, and then, with a sign to Clark to make himself comfortable, also went into the dressing room. Clark heard doors opening and closing, and looked around while he waited for Lex to return. 

This room was quite unlike Lex’s bedroom in London. The décor there had been sober,  but completely modern. Here, the beautifully crafted linen-fold panels that lined the Oak Gallery were repeated, up to about shoulder height, then the walls were simple white above. The ceiling had the same decorative ribbing as in the library. Lex had said the rooms combined bedroom and sitting room; the bedroom came first, with a great four-poster bed hung with jonquil silk, matching the drapes over the windows. Clark guessed that in winter, these would be exchanged for a heavier, darker material, as was often the practice. To the left of the bed, still along the south side of the room, was a large, white stone fireplace with a painted crest in its centre, then beyond that the door to the dressing room. 

There was one large bow window looking westward, and two windows looking out over the park and lake to the north. To either side of the west window were two large bookcases, while facing north was an elegant settee and two comfortable armchairs, each with a small, round table set by it. A dresser stood to the left of the door by which they had entered, and a wall table with a half-cheval glass set on it. Small bedside tables framed the four-poster. It was spacious and simple, and Clark felt comfortable in this room, though it bore few enough personal touches. The only paintings were a Tudor pair, a man and woman in rich court dress, fine portraits, but which seemed of no particular personal significance. The books, however  –  that was pure Lex, he thought, with a little smile. 

Lex returned, with Clark’s worn blue robe and a nightshirt draped over one arm. He  closed the dressing room door  –  without locking it, Clark noted  –  and laid the two items over one of the high-backed chairs before the fireplace. 

“I thought you might have need of these at some point,” he said simply. “Although, as  far as I’m concerned,” he added, coming up close, fire in his gaze, “the less you have on, the better.”

Clark began to  pull at his cravat to loosen it. “Then I should get rid of a few things, shouldn’t I?” 

Lex chuckled, the sound wicked and thrilling, and put his hands up to still Clark’s, taking  over the task of unfastening  the fabric. “Yes, but allow me. I’ve always  wanted to unveil a work  of art.”

 

&*&*&*&*&*& 

Clark was still sleeping. 

Lex moved carefully so he had a better view of the young man, and smiled tenderly. Clark had been as eager and lusty as any young male, but the third climax seemed to have abruptly exhausted him, and he had plunged into a deep, contented slumber. Lex did not mind that, he had been one climax behind and already feeling pleasantly sated, and had been quite happy to doze alongside his new lover. Now, he just wanted to drink in the perfection of that beautiful face, and the breathtaking body. 

He had kept matters simple for their first time. He saw no point in rushing things. They had days and weeks together, more than time enough to discover likes and dislikes in detail, and Lex was still not sure what, if any, preconceptions Clark had about sex and sexual activity.  He had responded to Lex’s purposeful caresses more than enthusiastically, though his answering touch on Lex’s body tended to be a little tentative. Lex thought that would resolve  itself  quickly, once Clark grew more confident about what he wanted, and how to interpret Lex’s  desires. Even if they never got any further than this (which Lex doubted sincerely, for Clark seemed a genuinely passionate creature) he was a joy to be with, sweet, receptive, quick to learn. Yet there was an innocence about him, which, it seemed, even sexual experience could not blemish; in sleep, he was cherubic, though he sprawled naked on the bed, and the air was redolent of sensual pleasures. 

Clark snuffled a little, squirming deeper into the soft bedding, his hand straying blindly over the white linen. When a line appeared between his brows, and the full mouth curved downwards in an unmistakeable pout, Lex realised, a little amused, that Clark sought him, and was put out at not finding him right there. He let himself slip further down into the bed, and moved back towards Clark. Immediately,  Clark’s arm came around him, possessively, and Clark  wriggled closer, his features relaxing again. He had Lex back where he wanted him, and was content. Oddly touched, Lex rolled in towards him, so that they were cuddled together, and stroked the silken, black locks gently. 

Clark opened his eyes, and smiled radiantly. “Lex,” he said simply, his voice rich  with  sheer contentment.

“Clark,” Lex murmured, and sought his mouth to kiss him. 

“Mmmhh,” Clark sighed with pleasure against Lex’s lips, and the big body melted against Lex’s in willing surrender once more. They kissed for long, luxurious minutes, moist,  teasing kisses. 

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” Lex said, half-apologetically. 

“I didn’t mean to fall asleep,” Clark returned shyly. 

“Well, yes, that was a bit sudden,” he could not help teasing, and was rewarded with one of Clark’s delectable blushes. 

“You intoxicate me more surely than any wine,” Clark said, recovering his wits. 

Lex drew a lingering finger down Clark’s cheek. “I’ve only just begun. You’re going to have to develop a head for spirits. You don’t imagine that’s all there was to it, do you?” 

“Lex, I may be a virgin...”

“Have been,” Lex corrected, with a smirk.

“Yes, but you haven’t finished the job yet, have you? As I was saying...” 

Lex found it funny when Clark got that pedantic little note in his voice. He had imagined it had been inherited from his father, or maybe his grandfather. He still thought so, even though he now knew Clark had been adopted. 

“... I may be...” 

“Innocent,” Lex supplied helpfully. Clark put a large hand over Lex’s mouth. 

“... but I did grow up on a farm. I can’t help but be aware of certain – mechanics.” 

He drew back his hand again, but not before Lex had given a teasing lick to his palm. 

“Is that honestly what you were expecting?” Lex asked, amused. “Just to be humped like a farm animal?” 

He grinned wryly. “Well, no, maybe not quite that. I, um, did expect humping to come into it somewhere along the line, though.”

“I hope to God I’ve never just ‘humped’  anyone,”  Lex said fervently. “I may not have grown up on a farm, but I’ve been around my share on one estate or another. I’ve never seen anything look as bored as a cow being serviced. They just go right on chewing the cud.” 

Clark was biting his lip, trying not to laugh. “Well, my experience has been with sheep  rather than cattle, but...” 

Lex had raised one eyebrow to extraordinary heights. “I trust that was merely an  unfortunate  turn of phrase, or I’ll have to revise my assessment of your innocence.” 

Clark gave him a wide-eyed  stare, then a slightly shocked little giggle. “Lex! Can’t you be serious for one minute?” 

Lex smiled, shaking his head, and reaching up to ruffle Clark’s dark locks fondly. “Absolutely not. Believe me, if one can’t laugh in bed, things are in a sorry state indeed. It’s difficult  to take an activity this  messy seriously.” 

Clark gave him a quizzical look, then chuckled faintly. “We are in a mess,” he agreed  humorously. 

“Which is why I asked for the bath to be made ready.” He sat up, and looked down at Clark expectantly. “Well?” 

“Can’t we just do it all over again?” 

Lex grinned. “The bed is not the only place a man can take his pleasure. Come along – you’ll like the bath, I think.” 

Clark got up reluctantly. “A bath’s a bath,” he grumbled faintly. 

“Not mine,” Lex returned smugly, sliding out  of the bed. 

He waited for Clark to come round the bed to him, and took his hand, leading him to the dressing room. This was a small, odd-shaped, five-sided room, with two more doors set in it. Lex opened that nearest the outer wall, and Clark entered into another small room, this one six-sided. 

There was basically only one thing in this room  –  a great, sunken bath, hexagonal in shape, tiled in ivory and pale green, with a seat running all the way round the inside. At each angle, a short, thick, copper pipe protruded a few inches. Sure-footed, Lex made his way round the rim of the bath to the far wall, and turned two small wheels set in the wall. Immediately, water began gushing through the pipes, and that which came through at least three of them  was steaming hot. Before returning to Clark’s side, Lex paused to pick a jar from an overhead  shelf, and scooped out a handful of small, rough crystals, which he tossed into the water. 

Immediately, the air filled with a subtle scent, fresh and woody, a touch of peppermint, and something a little sweeter behind  –  lavender, Clark realised, very faint, and at the same time registered that this was the scent that always lingered about Lex. 

Other than the bath, there was only a corner unit, with various bath items on it, and a towel horse, hung with thick, white bath-towels. A narrow passage ran between the bath and the outer wall, connecting two opposing doors, and Clark guessed that the far door gave access to another dressing room, and thence into the south bedroom. Meanwhile, the bath was filling up at an extraordinary rate. In just a few minutes, it would be ready for use, and if Clark was to judge by the steam rapidly filling the room, it would be piping hot. He turned a marvelling gaze on Lex, who was looking rather pleased with himself. 

“Impressive, no?” 

“Very. Did you have this installed? And – why?” 

Lex chuckled. “Actually, no. Not the bath. I gather my grandparents had been rather  impressed with the sunken baths seen in antique Roman villas, and wanted to emulate them.  However, what I did have installed was the cistern and pump that lies behind that wall.” He pointed to the far wall. “Otherwise, it took hours to fill, and could not be heated properly.  However,  I’ve learnt a few  things hanging around Stephenson and his crowd, about steam and  rapid water heating, and siphon systems. It’s still far from instant; however, with a few hours’  advance  notice, a luxurious hot bath can be made ready quite speedily.” 

The water had now covered the seat, and Lex, half-in and half-out of the bath, looked back at Clark with an inviting smile, and extended his hand. Clark took it, and stepped down into the bath. The scented steam rose in swirls around them. Lex gently pressed him down onto the seat, and straddled him, sitting in his lap. Clark grinned, and wrapped his arms around  Lex’s slim form, raising his face for his lover’s kiss. When Lex slipped from his embrace to turn  off the water, as it had reached chest height, Clark made a distinct sound of protest. Glancing back over his shoulder, Lex smirked, did what he had to, and promptly returned to his previous position. 

“You said I must have been a handful as a child? Even had I been allowed free reign, I  think it would have been nothing  compared to you. You’re adorable when you pout, do you know that? You’re irresistible now; you must have been devastating as a small child.” 

“I don’t pout!” Clark objected. 

“You do it all the time. You’re doing it right now,” and to prove the  point, Lex nipped  teasingly at Clark’s lower lip, to demonstrate how much it was protruding. 

“That’s just so you’ll kiss me,” Clark smiled, then asked innocently, “Aren’t we supposed to be getting clean?”

“Whatever gave you that idea?” Lex replied archly. “Didn’t I tell you there were places other than the bed in which a man could find his pleasure?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Many of the characters used in this work of fan-fiction are the creation and property of DC Comics, Time/Warner and all relevant subsidiaries. No infringement of copyright is intended, and no income of any nature is being derived from its publication


	12. In Which A Birthday Is Celebrated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clark has an uncomfortable encounter with His Grace.

Clark was the last to offer Lex his birthday present at lunch that day. Breakfast was too irregular, people drifting in and out at any time from seven in the morning, until about eleven, so that the guests were rarely all seated together. Lex did not want to share the enjoyment of receiving his gifts in front of his father that evening, and that left lunchtime. Most of his gifts were books, in which he took evident and unfeigned pleasure. Clark, however, had had other ideas. 

He took the wide, thin packet from Clark with an intrigued look, which turned to one of delight when it turned out to be a musical score. 

“Weber,” he read out from the frontispiece. “ _Aufforderung_ _zum Tanze_.  ‘Invitation to  the Dance;  Rondo Brillante.’  Where did you find this?” He was not really expecting an answer,  though, as he had already opened the slim volume, and was leafing through the pages, eyes  growing wider. “Good  Lord!  This is one of Weber’s own concert pieces.” 

“So I gathered,” Clark agreed, not understanding Lex’s surprise. 

“No, I mean, it’s one of the pieces he’s written for his own use in recital. He’s a phe nomenal pianist, and writes  music to display his own virtuosity. This is one such.” He laughed a little, though his eyes were shining. “I think you’ve overestimated my abilities a trifle.” 

“The assistant didn’t think so,” Clark smiled, “and since they’re your regular suppliers,  I  imagined he knew what he was talking about.” 

“You went to Longman’s?” 

“How else was I to tell what you did or did not have in your collection? Anyway, they assured me that it was fresh off the press from Berlin, that you hadn’t pre-ordered  it, and that it was the kind of thing they might have included in your next order on approval, anyway. So, I  thought....” He left the sentence unfinished, with a humorous little shrug. 

“You’re putting me on my mettle with this. Thank you, Clark. I shall endeavour  to live  up to your expectations.” 

Clark turned his head somewhat, so that Lex alone could see his face, and murmured,  inaudibly to anyone else, “You always do.” 

With a little smile, Lex let his fingers brush lightly against Clark’s. Although none  of their  guests were in any doubt as to their relationship, public displays of affection were not considered good  _ton_ ,  so they generally refrained from any but the most discreet of gestures while in company.

Clark found this more difficult than he had expected. He was a tactile person naturally, and right now, he was a-daze  with the wonder of Lex’s body, of the lean, strong form, the pale,  smooth skin, and the fine silk of his coppery hair. Lex had talked of unveiling works of art, but when they retired for the night, more often than not it was Clark who unwrapped Lex as if he was an object of the finest, rarest, Chinese porcelain. Lex tolerated this good-naturedly, because once in bed (or in the bath or, Lex hoped, any other place they might try out once his house guests had departed), Clark got over his reverence and laid hands on him hungrily enough. 

It all meant, however, that Clark derived particular pleasure merely from touching Lex, and found the bounds of propriety singularly irritating at this stage. Lex used this somewhat shamelessly to tease his companion, purely for the pleasure of finding himself abruptly snatched into secluded corners and kissed within an inch of his life at odd moments during the day. He always had liked being provocative; Clark was just going to have to get used to it. 

Lionel arrived a little before seven. Lex was alone to greet him, explaining that most of his guests were changing for dinner. In fact, Clark had wanted to stay with him, but he had sent him away,  preferring that they should be in company before Lionel met his son’s new lover in earnest. To give Lionel’s valet the time to prepare things for the evening, they repaired to one  of the rear drawing rooms, for a glass of fine Madeira wine. 

“The house is looking very well, Lex,” Lionel commented. “I confess I find it a little  surprising,  considering how little time you actually spend here.” 

“My staff has learnt that I don’t tolerate disorder.” 

“The revenues for the estate?” 

“More than sufficient to maintain themselves. I’ve no need to plough money in from other sources.” Unlike Lanchester Court, he did not add  aloud. 

“I see you still maintain Mrs. Jenkins on board.” 

“Yes. She’s very good at her job. I’ve told her if she treats you with the  proper respect,  you’ll do the same for her. The scarcely veiled hostility with which you behave to each other is a little trying, sir.” 

“You’re blaming me?” Lionel queried, put out.  
“Not entirely. However, I have more say over her actions than yours, so I’m appealing  to your sense of proprieties.” His tone was decidedly mocking. “It really is not fitting that the  Duke of Lanchester  should be seen to be at odds with a mere housekeeper.”

Lionel made an indeterminate noise, clearly none too pleased. However, there was a  knock at the door just then, and Lionel’s manservant came in, with a small box on a silver  salver. Lionel took it, with a nod to his man, who promptly disappeared again. He offered the box to Lex. 

“Many happy returns, my son.” 

Lex wore very little jewellery as a general rule; a fob watch during the day, on plain chains with no seals, and at night, usually his amethyst ring, and almost always a pin for his cravat. The box contained such a pin, so severely plain it might have seemed paltry, were it not for the fact it was set with a flawless diamond. The stone was neither large, nor small, but artfully drop-cut, and of faultless colour and purity, simply set in gold. Lex held it up to the light, admiring it. 

“Brazilian?” 

“No,  Indian. It was part of a much larger stone, but some local craftsman botched the  cut, and all that could be saved was four stones of three to four carats apiece. Still, they’re  singularly fine gems. I know your taste for very simple settings of high  quality stones.” 

“Yes, indeed. Thank you, Father, a handsome gift indeed.” 

“It’s getting increasingly difficult to find original gifts for you.” 

Lex smiled faintly. “Books are always welcome, you know.” 

“I’d practically have to steal it off the engraver’s plate to be sure you weren’t already in  possession  of a copy,” Lionel countered, in amused exasperation. “Never mind, I shall consider it good mental exercise. So, tell me the rest of your company at this time.” 

“Lucas, of course.” 

“Of course,” Lionel agreed dryly. 

“Nell Potter and her niece. The Sullivans, and their daughter Chloe. Major Charles Pyatt...” 

“That’s one of Arundale’s grandsons, isn’t it?” 

“Yes, the second. We were in the same troop. He’s recently married; the new Mrs.  Pyatt is Jenny Fordman as was, and her brother, Captain Fordman is with them. Miss Stanton  and Miss Dalzell. Sebastian Veryan and his friend Christopher Holt. I’ve also invited the Lan gridge brother and sister to join us, but since they live only five  miles away, they don’t sleep here. And Clark Kent.”

“Who, I presume, has been lodged in the west tower.” 

Lex inclined his head in agreement, his steady gaze daring his father to make an issue of it. The clock on the mantelpiece chimed the half-hour, and Lex stood. 

“May I suggest that we both retire to dress. We’ll be convening for drinks at eight-thirty. You know where your room is.” 

Clark was waiting for Lex when he got to his bedroom. The younger man was ready save for his cravat and dinner jacket, and when Lex was immediately drawn into a very thorough kiss, he had to smile, because it was suddenly obvious why Clark had not yet tied his cravat. Lex  put one hand around Clark’s neck, buried the other in his black hair, and kissed him back  enthusiastically. A lot of the tension he had been feeling melted away. 

“Mmh,” he sighed with pleasure, when the kiss ended, “I needed that.” He buried his face against Clark’s throat for a moment, breathing in deeply of Clark’s fresh, wholesome scent,  then pressed a kiss to the strong column, and let him go. 

“I think you may safely do your cravat now,” he said, with a quick grin that was echoed by Clark’s. 

“How goes it?” 

Lex showed him the pin, and Clark gave a little whistle of appreciation. “Are  you wear ing it?” 

“Yes, I think so. It is a handsome gift, and I see no reason to offend him by seeming to ignore it.” He began to divest himself of his daywear. “It will be all right. He seems to be in a reasonable mood, and I’ve given a lot of consideration  to the seating plan. Father has to take  Nell in anyway, she’s the ranking female, and I thought I would put Claire Dalzell on his left.” 

Clark gave him a somewhat doubtful look. “Is that wise? Miss Dalzell is –  quite forceful  in her way.” 

Lex chuckled. “Oh, he won’t mind that, not from her. There’s nothing between them;  no history, I mean, no grounds for competition, or anything like that, and under those circumstances, he doesn’t dislike a little forthright speech. She’ll keep him occupied.  Next to them,  he’ll have Mr. Sullivan, and Charles. Meanwhile, you and Lucas will be down at my end of the  table, and with eighteen of us, I think we can avoid any unfortunate clashes. Things might get a little stickier when it gets to the port, but  we’ll just have to cross that bridge when we come to 

it.”  
“Whom do you take in?” 

“Jenny Pyatt. Charles gets Mrs. Sullivan, you get Miss Stanton, and Lucas will get Miss Lang, which will not please him, but is protocol. I’ve seen to it Miss Sullivan’s seated across from him, though.” 

Clark looked at him in some amusement. “I was joking a few days ago, but I know better now. You’re a hopeless romantic at heart. No, no need to give me that look,” he said, in  response  to Lex’s haughtily raised eyebrow, “I have your measure now. You  are  matchmaking.  Your brother and Miss Sullivan, and I remember Captain Fordman from Miss Lang’s party. Though Lady Potter is not going to be too happy with that, if I’ve not misread her.” 

Lex shrugged. “What do I care for Nell’s opinion? Her machinations were just going to  result in another miserable match whereby one or both parties would eventually be tempted  into indiscretion, and neither would have the wit to cover it up properly. I don’t know Fordman  particularly,  but I thought Miss Lang showed more partiality for him than I’ve seen her evince for anyone else of my acquaintance, and he’s a perfectly good party. He seems presentable  enough  – a dead bore, as far as I’m concerned, but Charles vouches for him, and there’s nothing wrong with either his lineage or his fortune.” 

Clark just shook his head a little at Lex’s rationalisations, smiling, kissed him lightly once  more, and disappeared back into his own rooms to finish dressing. 

He was quickly done, and rather than sitting in his room doing nothing, or distracting Lex, which would have been all too easy, he chose to go downstairs to the drawing-room where they usually assembled before dinner. He took down the book he was currently reading, thinking to sit quietly and read a little more before the rest of the guests turned up. 

He was startled to find someone already present. Lionel Luthor sat in one of the arm-chairs idly perusing the gazette, a glass of what looked like Madeira on a small table at his elbow. He looked up as Clark entered, and folded the paper in a leisurely manner. Clark, not expecting the company at this hour, and not sure how to handle meeting this formidable personage who Lex so clearly held in considerable distrust, froze in the doorway. 

“Mr. Kent, is it not?” Lionel asked languidly. 

Clark remembered his manners, and bowed. “Yes, Your Grace.” 

The duke waved a hand towards the opposite armchair. “Sit, sit, young man. I don’t bite, regardless of what my son may have told you.” 

Normally, he paid little mind to it, but right now, Clark cursed his fair skin, and his  tendency to blush so easily. However, he did as bid, and headed for the chair.

“I’m sure I don’t need to tell you to help yourself to Lex’s wine,” Lionel added smoothly. 

There was something about that comment and the urbane tone that made Clark want to grind his teeth, but he told himself firmly to stand down and not make mountains out of molehills. 

“Thank you, sir, but I believe I’ll wait for the others,” he returned.  He was proud of himself for his even tone, and if Lanchester wanted to read something into it, well then, let him. 

“May I see what you’re reading?” 

Clark handed over the slim volume without comment. 

Lionel’s eyebrows rose, as he inspected the frontispiece. “ _Frankenstein_.”  He handed  the book back. “Odd, you don’t look like the type to indulge in gothic novels, Mr. Kent.” 

“It’s a great deal more than a mere gothic novel, sir. I only wish I knew who the author was. I take it you’ve not read it yourself?” 

“No. I don’t read fiction.” His tone was dismissive of the entire genre. 

“In  its own way, fiction can be as instructive as non-fiction,  I believe,” Clark hazarded  shyly. 

“What does  _Frankenstein_ teach you, then?” 

“That’s hard to  explain to one who has not read it, sir. However, aside from the perils of  unrestrained and morally ambiguous research, there is the recognition of man’s resistance to  change, of how deeply he resents anything that truly shakes the foundations of his secure little  corner of the world, as he knows it.” 

“To quote my head groom, however vulgarly, the dictum usually is, if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.” 

Clark smiled fleetingly. “Yes, sir, I’ve heard that, too, often enough. However, what if it  has always  been broken?” 

“Then why did it ever work?” 

“It did not. We just made do, until a better solution came along and imposed itself. We  are, after all, rather good at improvising with the tools at hand, as is blatantly obvious from the history of mankind.” 

Lionel gave him a considering look. “You’re aware of my son’s interest in this new steam power business? In the railway, and the steam looms?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“What is your opinion on that? Is that unrestrained and morally ambiguous research, or  is it right and natural? 

Clark seated himself, taking his time to answer. “I think that it is not unnatural. Reani mating corpses is one thing, applying the laws of physics is another. I think, on the whole, what it offers will be a good thing. However, I also think that it brings great changes to our society, and that the failure will be not in the implementation of these changes, but in their integration. Those great changes can be made more smoothly with a little forethought, but that is not in the spirit of our times. We are moving very fast, sir, and there will be many casualties along the  way.” 

Lionel tilted his head, curiosity apparent in his expression. “And do you have plans to – avoid those casualties, in any way?” 

“I? I have no such power,  sir. If I can aid in my own small ways, then I will do so, but I  have no ability to make the kind of decisions as will influence hundreds, nay, thousands.” 

“You currently have Lex in your pocket. He’s still young, but he is already highly influential, and will only become more so,” Lionel said bluntly. 

“Lex is his own master,” Clark returned. “He knows my opinions, but how he acts is, and always will be, his own decision.” 

“You are not very experienced in personal relations, if you think that.  We have all  thought the world well lost for love, at one time or another, but more often when very young.” 

“Then I should be concerned for myself, and not for Lex.” 

“You’re out of your depths in these waters, Mr. Kent.” 

Any further discussion was circumvented by the irruption into the room of the young Pyatts, and Veryan and Holt. They stopped short on seeing Lanchester, and greeted him with proper decorum, but then absorbed Clark into their discussion, and if anyone other than Clark noticed the Duke’s  keen gaze studying  him with undue attention, then they were polite enough not to draw attention to it. 

To Clark’s relief, Lionel had no further opportunity to speak with him privately that  evening. As Lex had predicted, Lady Potter and Miss Dalzell kept him busy at his end of the  table. When the ladies retired to the salon, the men kept their places, and that meant that  Lionel’s new neighbours were Major Pyatt – himself a duke’s grandson, and very much accus tomed to moving in those circles, even though he was career military  –  and Gabriel Sullivan, a noted publisher with extensive  connections amongst society’s intellectual classes. Dinner,  therefore, went smoothly, and everyone eventually retired to bed having spent a pleasant evening, or at least a reasonable facsimile thereof.

When Clark rejoined Lex in bed, having undressed in his own room, he was, naturally, welcomed with open arms, but also with a question. 

“Charles said my father had you pinned earlier this evening. What happened?” 

“Oh, well, pinned is maybe overstating the case. I went downstairs a little early, that’s all. I should have gone to the library, really, but I wasn’t expecting anyone to be down yet, least  of all your father, considering he arrived less than an hour earlier.” 

“He has never been inclined to linger.” 

“I can see that. Anyway, I could hardly turn tail, could I? We talked. He’s –  sort of disconcerting. He turns the conversation from general to personal and back again with little more than a word placed or  said in such a way.” 

“Mmh,” Lex agreed, non-committally. “Tell me what he said.” 

Clark repeated his conversation. “Frankly, I don’t know why he’d be interested in me  particularly anyway. Has he always taken this degree of interest in your affairs,  Lex?” 

“He’s getting a little paranoid. When he was my age, I was already born, and Julian was  imminent. There is nothing he fears more than that I should tarry in securing my own succes sion.” 

“There are plenty of men of your class waiting until much later to marry,” Clark said, a little bemused. “I would say thirty, or even thirty-five, is becoming nearer the norm.” 

“He would accept that if I were a staid homebody. I committed the cardinal sin, in his  eyes. I went to war, to the front lines. I risked life and limb before ensuring the future of our  name. He has never forgotten or forgiven that, and I daresay he’d rather be dead than see it happen again.” 

Clark made a faintly scornful noise, and settled down further into the bed, Lex securely wrapped in his arms. Lex relaxed against him pleasurably, and stroked his black hair. 

“He’ll be gone tomorrow, and won’t bother us again for the summer.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Many of the characters used in this work of fan-fiction are the creation and property of DC Comics, Time/Warner and all relevant subsidiaries. No infringement of copyright is intended, and no income of any nature is being derived from its publication


	13. In Which Distraction Is Found For A Rainy Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our heroes find a most agreeable way to occupy their time when the weather frowns upon them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating for this chapter is Explicit

Tomorrow, however, dawned typical of an English summer day  –  pouring with rain. Woken early by the steady pattering of water against the windowpanes, Lex and Clark lingered a while in bed, making love with their usual ardour. Then they dressed and descended to the breakfast room, but were met in the gallery by Mitchell, who had an anxious expression. 

“My lord, if I might have a moment of your time...” 

“What is it, Mitchell?” 

“The wooden bridge over the Tannis has collapsed, my lord. The river’s not so strong it can’t be forded on foot, but the road’s not passable to carriages  at the moment. Miss Lan gridge and Master Philip returned last night with the news.” 

“We were able to accommodate them, I trust?” 

“Mrs. Jenkins and I asked Miss Lang and Captain Fordman if they would be kind enough  to share their respective rooms, and both parties were quite agreeable, under the circumstances. I sent a man to Squire Langridge’s at first light this morning with confirmation of the young lady and gentleman’s presence here.” 

“I know we retired very promptly after they left, but I could  have been notified of their difficulties.  However, matters seem to have been handled competently enough.” Lex paused. “Is my father up?” 

“Yes, my lord, he’s in at breakfast.” 

“Have you told him?” 

“Yes, my lord. He said doubtless you would see to things.” 

Lex smiled crookedly. “In other words, he’s not too perturbed.” 

“No, my lord. I’ve taken the liberty of sending the available estate men out to commence repairs.” 

“Send someone in to Tannisford. Tell them that every able-bodied  man who comes to assist will get half-a-crown for his pains, and either lunch or dinner  –  depending on when the  work’s done – at the Bay Horse Inn. The same terms for our own people, of course. Then he’s  to go on to the Inn, once some idea of the number of bodies can be established, and arrange  things with the landlord. I want that bridge repaired as quickly as can be contrived.”

“Right away, my lord,” Mitchell bowed and hastened away to carry out his orders. 

“Looks like my father will be gracing us with his company a little longer than planned,”  Lex commented to Clark in a wry undertone, just before entering the breakfast room. 

Aside from Lionel, the Sullivans were also present. Lex greeted them, but was focused on his father. 

“Good morning, sir. I gather you’ve heard the news?” 

“About the bridge being down? Yes. I trust you won’t begrudge me a few extra hours’ – or even a night’s – stay?” 

“Of course not. I hope it won’t come to that, though. I’ve set things in motion to ensure  we have plenty of  labour available to work on the repairs.” He smiled a little wryly. “I really  must have a talk with Squire Langridge and the mayor about getting that bridge replaced with a stone one. Meanwhile, what are we to do to keep you entertained during your extended stay,  sir?” 

“Don’t let me put your own plans out, Lex. I’m sure I can find ways of diverting myself. Perhaps Mr. Kent would indulge me in a game of chess, if he plays?” 

Clark did, but he did not look forward to the prospect of the protracted  tête-à-tête  such a game would inevitably entail. 

“I’m afraid Clark and I did indeed have other plans, and since you’ve been kind enough to say you’ve no wish to disturb those...” Lex said smoothly, before Clark had to make a re sponse. 

“Why, if chess is your pleasure, sir,” Gabe Sullivan put in cheerfully, “it’d be my honour to take you on. I’d consider it a privilege to play a game against such a noted expert as yourself.” 

Lionel could not, in good grace, refuse Sullivan’s well-intentioned  offer, and so made the appropriate response. Clark heaved a silent sigh of relief, and refrained from looking at Lex,  whose ‘other plans’ were news to him. 

Once they had left the table, however, he did say quietly, “Lex, I was wondering if I  might not perhaps be of  some assistance at the bridge? Because you didn’t really have plans for us, did you?” 

“I was hardly going to leave you to my father’s tender mercies, was I?” Lex countered, with a slightly feral grin. “Don’t think twice about the bridge; despite the weather, there’ll be  an army of men down there by now. Between the money and the meal  –  and the Bay Horse has an excellent reputation in the neighbourhood  – there’ll be plenty of takers. Besides, I may not have had plans earlier, but I’ve had plenty of time to make them since. I’m of a mind to be a poor host, for once. Lucas can easily keep the others amused today.” 

His inference was unmistakable, and Clark knew that he was blushing fiercely. “Lex, we can’t just... you know...” he whispered, though they were  quite alone. 

“Don’t you want to investigate the summerhouse?” Lex asked teasingly. He stroked cool fingers over Clark’s hot cheek. “You are so  edible  when you blush like that,” he added, his  voice a little  hoarse with desire. “Wait  for me in the library, while I make a few arrangements.  We’ll sneak out the back.” 

Being in the library, with the comfortable surrounds of all the books, helped Clark regain his composure somewhat, though the idea that he and Lex were planning to abscond from the company in order to enjoy each other carnally still brought heat to his face. Lex, however, when he returned, was looking positively conspiratorial, and Clark could see he was amusing himself considerably. He was also carrying a small hamper. 

“Come along, the coast is clear,” he urged. 

Clark wanted to giggle, as they made their way stealthily down the servants’ staircase to  the south door, where Mrs. Jenkins waited, outwardly impassive, but with twinkling eyes, to offer them a large umbrella. Since Lex had the hamper, Clark took the umbrella  –  it made more sense that way anyway, as he was the taller  –  and they set off briskly towards the rose garden, whose high hedges would shield them from curious eyes looking from the house as they made their way down to the lake and the summerhouse. He did not, however, imagine anyone would believe them demented enough to go outdoors at all in such poor weather, even though it was very mild, despite the rain. 

At the summerhouse, Lex passed the hamper to Clark, and fished out a large key to unlock the small door, and they entered. Clark had not been here since his initial tour; then, they had merely looked in the door. Now, Lex took a flint and a taper from his pockets, struck a light, and began going round the room illuminating the numerous brackets affixed to the walls, for though there were windows in the summerhouse, they were all on the upper level. The  room was circular, with tall alcoves marking the four branches of the ‘cross’. The walls were  decorated with a sumptuous fresco, depicting a vividly hued garden that blended into a pastoral landscape, dotted here and there with figures in rich, Jacobean costume, apparently playing a variety of games. A hint of fabric here, a languid hand there, a bare foot elsewhere, a stray hat, artfully concealed amidst the lush greenery, suggested coyly that the seemingly innocuous games led in due course to less innocent pleasures. 

The furniture consisted mainly of a large oak refectory table, twelve straight-back chairs  set around it, with the matching carvers at either end, and another dozen or so upholstered chairs set around the wall. Directly across from the entrance, a stone staircase curved up a segment of the wall to end, seemingly abruptly, in the ceiling. Now that the place was fully illuminated, Clark could just make out the large trapdoor that gave access to the upper floor.

Lex was giving him an amused look. “Well, come on. Leave your wet things there, and come upstairs.” 

“It’s odd there are no windows down here,” Clark commented as he did as bid. 

“It is,” Lex agreed. “It’s an odd little building altogether, but I find it has its charms.” He  led the way up the staircase, and pushed open the trapdoor. 

The upper room was the complete antithesis of the lower. Where that had been all dark and shade, illuminated only by candlelight, this was flooded with daylight  –  even with the muted daylight of a rainy day  –  from the four great arched windows. Where that had been lavishly decorated, but soberly furnished, this was very simply decorated, plain panelled walls painted ivory with plaster-cast details picked out in gold, but sumptuously furnished. Bright Persian carpets were spread across the wooden floor, and the room was dominated by an immense divan, spread with a great purple and gold brocade throw, and scattered with brightly coloured cushions. When Clark saw the bowl of fresh fruit on one table, the salver with wine and two glasses on another and the washbasin and ewer with fresh water on a third, he smiled crookedly. 

“How long have you been planning on having your way with me up here, Lex?” 

“Ever since you accepted my invitation,” Lex replied, quite unabashed. Then he seemed to divine some of Clark’s secret thoughts, for he came close, and cupped Clark’s cheek gently. “It’s true I had this place re-fitted as my private den of assignation, but I’ve never actually brought anyone here yet,” he said. “I have never even brought a lover to the Park before,  much less here, for none has been worthy, in my imagination, to grace this fantasy room of mine  – until you. Since you arrived, though, I’ve been counting the hours until I could see you spread out in all your glory right over there.” He gestured towards the divan, though his eyes stayed on Clark’s  face, bright with laughter and desire. 

“Is that a hint I should get undressed?” Clark queried, amused, even though he could not help but blush. Lex’s hunger for him had that effect on him. 

“That might not be a bad idea,” Lex agreed airily. “I have one or two things to set out.” 

“I thought that was lunch,” Clark commented curiously, as Lex drew out what appeared  to be a length of brightly coloured fabric. 

He received a frankly sceptical look for his pains. “With your appetite? You can’t be  serious.”

“Lex...!” Lex teased him constantly about the amount of food he could put away. 

Lex ignored his protest. “No, lunch will be set out downstairs in due course. There were  just some items we need for what I have in mind, and something easy and casual to wear in between  times, so we don’t need to go to the trouble of dressing fully until we return to the house.” 

Clark had spotted a wardrobe,  and was hanging up his jacket. “I was getting the impression we might not return to the house.” 

Lex smiled  wryly. “I’ve been seriously considering that, believe me. However, it’s  possible  the bridge won’t be repaired today –  it depends on how bad the rain is, and exactly where the weak point was  –  which means my father would be with us again tonight. While I  can disappear for the day, if I didn’t show up at night, it would be a different matter altogether.” 

“I suppose so.  If  he asks me to play chess again...” 

“If he’s determined – and it is one of the best ways he’d have of getting to talk to you  uninterrupted  – you’d best resign yourself to it. And to losing – he’s a much better player than you are.” 

“Better than you?” Clark had lost every game he’d played with Lex so far. 

“Yes, on the whole, though I have my moments.” 

“You certainly do.” 

It was said in an undertone, though the laughing face Lex turned towards him told him he had been heard clearly enough. 

“That wasn’t a complaint, was it?” 

Clark grinned back. “No, of course not. Though I can’t help but wonder what you have  in mind for me  here.” 

Lex came up to him, pulling off his own jacket. “Your complete surrender,” he said, with  husky promise. 

“You already have that.”

“You don’t know the meaning of the word yet.” He raised his hands to unlace Clark’s  shirt. “I’ve been taking things  slowly with you, Clark, to let you get used to sharing your body  with another, but I’ve reached the end of my patience. Remember I told you that you were the only birthday present I wanted from you? Well, I’m claiming you now.”

“I’m yours,” Clark said simply. His hands echoed Lex’s gestures, and they stripped each  other, unhurried, yet eager. 

Lex had tossed aside the cushions, and pulled back the purple spread to reveal sheets of the exact same shade, in the finest linen. He pressed Clark down onto the bed, and then took a step back to survey him. 

“Men have been struck blind for looking on lesser glories than this,” he murmured, his gaze devouring Clark’s golden length, magnificently set off against the rich, dark colour of the  linens. Clark tolerated his rapt admiration for a moment or two longer, then held out his arms imperiously. 

“Lex, please stop looking, and start touching,” he demanded, pouting a little. 

Lex grinned, and pounced on him, kissing him hungrily. Clark met his hunger easily and equally, and they tangled in a knot of eager limbs, caressing hands and impatient mouths. Lex seemed quite set on worshipping Clark, however, if not with his eyes, then with his hands and  mouth, and Clark gave in readily enough to Lex’s exploration  of his body. When Lex pushed at him gently to get him to roll over on his stomach, he went easily, and was rewarded with having every vertebra of his spine sucked and nibbled until it tingled, and he was moaning with desire, his voice muffled by the pillows. When, however, he felt his buttocks being parted, and a hot, moist tongue descending into the cleft, he gave a start of surprise, and a whine of excitement at the shiver of pleasure that went through him. 

“Shh.” Lex stroked the small of his back lightly, until the tension eased. “You’ve felt me here before.” 

He had felt Lex’s hard shaft nestled against his crack, and between his thighs, yes, but  this  –  this was more direct. Then all coherent thought fled as Lex stroked his tongue across Clark’s  anus. Clark gave a little scream in reaction, as his senses exploded with pleasure, and his  too-ready cock pulsed with his release. 

When he was done, he lay there panting, half-ecstatic, half-ashamed for coming so quickly and so thoughtlessly. 

“Lex, I...” 

Lex was lying across his back again, his mouth at the nape of Clark’s neck. “Shh,” he soothed. “I meant for that to happen, or you’ll never last later.” 

Later? There was going to be a later? He was expected to survive more of  that? 

Once again, though, rational thought was draining away, for Lex was again sucking his  way down Clark’s vertebrae,  and right on down, back to his most intimate orifice. This time, it was not just a light flick of his tongue, it was a full-scale assault, and Clark was swamped with renewed ecstasy as Lex feasted avidly on him. That strong, agile tongue had him writhing and wriggling, trying to escape, yet draw closer simultaneously, and he was fully aroused again within what seemed like an almost indecently short period of time. As Clark had already discovered he liked to do, Lex held him on the edge for quite some time before he was allowed release. 

He was just coming down from his second climax when he felt something quite different probing for entrance to his body, but he was too relaxed to pay much heed as Lex slipped a finger, coated with some slick, oily liquid, into his anus. It was a different matter when that became two fingers, and then three, and Lex reached deep and touched some point inside Clark that had him gasping and trembling. He had thought he had felt pleasure before; it was a pale shadow of the sensation that engulfed him now as Lex crooked his fingers inside him. From the little chuckle he discerned behind him, Lex had been anticipating precisely that. 

“Feels good, hm?” Lex’s breath was hot against his ear, and his fingers were working that agonisingly wonderful magic in his body. “It gets better. You’re doing so well, my Gany mede, just stay nice and relaxed, but come to your hands  and knees.” 

Clark made some incoherent sound of agreement. Lex chuckled again, and kissed the corner of his mouth teasingly, before pulling back. Clark recalled that Lex had asked him to do something, but with those clever fingers stroking that mysterious, enchanted spot, he was even  less capable of clear thinking than before. When Lex’s fingers withdrew, he knew he was being punished for that lapse, and babbled some incoherent pleading noises in protest. Lex’s hands  grasped his hips, and pulled him back; then, he remembered.  Come to your knees,  Lex had said. Yes, he could do that, he would do that. 

As Clark took the hint, and scrambled into position, Lex wondered if he was going to survive the next few minutes. His tasting of Clark had left him light-headed, almost intoxicated with the flavour, and now the most perfect arse in all of Christendom  –  all of creation  –  was presented to him,  for  him. He wanted simply to plunge in and possess that tight, hot sweetness, but he had told Clark, and sworn  it to himself, that he would make Clark’s first times  perfect, and he was not going to spoil that now by too-hasty action. He took a moment to let his racing heart settle, and to regain some self-control,  hands caressing Clark’s smooth, warm  flesh gently, thumbs teasing a little at the hole, to reassure Clark that he was being neither neglected nor forgotten. 

He slicked more oil on his shaft, and placed his hands again on the firm globes of Clark’s  rump to part his cheeks. The head of his cock came to  rest against Clark’s virginal pucker, which appeared invitingly moist, red and relaxed from Lex’s earlier ministrations. Lex moved his  hands, one to guide himself into Clark, the other to stroke his young lover’s back gently, to ease  him through the shock of his first breaching.

To his delight, Clark took him easily. He was as tight as Lex would have expected, but  Lex’s slow, steady advance seemed to cause him no discomfort; his slight rocking movements  back against Lex spoke of eager acceptance, and soon Lex was firmly and snugly seated within him. He stopped, to give Clark a chance to adjust to him, and to rein himself back once more,  for the close fit of Clark’s body was almost unbearably stimulating. Lex groaned blissfully as  Clark unconsciously tightened his muscles around the intrusion, and pushed back against him a  little. He let himself fall forward over Clark’s back, nuzzling at his neck with teasing little nips. 

“Do that again,” he panted, a faint laugh in his voice, “and this will all be  over before it  has even begun.” 

Of course, Clark did precisely that, with a moan of Lex’s name, and a muffled impreca tion that he should  do  something. Lex cursed, laughed, bit his neck, then straightened up to  thrust hard into him. He hit the bull’s-eye  immediately. Clark gave a scream of ecstasy, bucking so sharply that Lex was nearly unseated, and had to grip the strong hips tightly to stay in place.  He eased back again a little and stroked Clark’s flank soothingly, but Clark was almost sobbing,  his body undulating with need, pressing back against Lex, seeking ever deeper penetration, seeking contact with that one spot that brought him so much pleasure. 

“Slow down, Clark,” Lex urged, driven to the limits of his own endurance. 

“Can’t!”  Clark moaned.  “Lex,  please...!” 

Lex swore briefly, gripped Clark’s hip firmly once more, and placed his other hand  between  the younger man’s shoulder blades to push him down to his elbows. Clark submitted  readily, and Lex, head back, eyes closed, straining to retain the last vestiges of control, snapped his hips in a fast, almost punishing rhythm, pumping strongly into Clark, striking his sweet spot  again and again, to Clark’s vociferous approval. 

It could not last long; ten strokes, and he was lost, his essence  flooding into Clark’s  welcoming  passage, draining him utterly. He need not have worried about Clark’s pleasure, though. Even through his own spasms, he felt Clark’s body clenching around him in paroxysmal  contractions, milking the last drop of his seed from him. He had no energy left to prevent himself from collapsing directly on top of Clark, nor any to free himself and roll aside, to avoid suffocating his utterly exhausted partner. 

It felt like an eternity, but it could not have been more than a few minutes before Lex  regained some measure of clarity of thought, and felt his spent organ slipping from Clark’s  body. He bemoaned the loss of the snug, warm, fleshy glove that had enclosed him so deliciously, but accepted it, and shifted to one side. Clark did not like that at all; he gave a little cry of protest, and reached out blindly for Lex, who responded immediately, drawing Clark to him 

in a close embrace. Clark wrapped him in an almost stifling hold, burying his face against Lex’s  breast, and just lay there, trembling very slightly all over. Lex understood that he was overwhelmed. The first time, with any luck, was always bewildering in the intensity of sensation it engendered, and this had been particularly intense, Lex having been unable to make things as slow and gentle as he had intended. He held Clark close, with more tenderness than he had believed he possessed, and stroked his black hair soothingly, waiting for him to recover. 

After a few minutes, he asked, “Is everything all right?” 

The dark head nodded, without hesitation. 

“You’re not in any  discomfort?” 

A firm shake of the head, this time. Lex stroked the small area of exposed cheek with one finger, and a smile tugged at his lips. 

“You’re blushing. I can feel the heat.” There  was a small sound suspiciously like a smothered giggle, but Clark merely tightened his hold a little more, and pressed closer to him. Lex grinned fleetingly.  The brat was teasing him. He tickled Clark’s ear lightly. 

“Nothing to say? Not even one word?” he coaxed. 

Clark finally raised his head, and Lex’s breath caught in his throat, for the expression on  that beautiful face was equal parts joy and mischief, and a wonder to behold. 

“Again?”

Lex burst out laughing. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ￼Disclaimer: Many of the characters used in this work of fan-fiction are the creation and property of DC Comics, Time/Warner and all relevant subsidiaries. No infringement of copyright is intended, and no income of any nature is being derived from its publication


	14. In Which An Uncomfortable Discovery Is Made

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clark and Lex happily mix business with pleasure, but Clark comes across some disquieting information.

“Glad to see the back of them?” Lex asked, as they walked back into the house from  seeing off the last of the houseguests, a few days later. 

Clark looked a little sheepish, but nodded, tucking his arm through Lex’s. “I have to say yes. Some more than others,” he  added, a touch wryly. 

Lex shot him an intrigued glance. “Dare I ask who?” 

“No, Lex, I’m not inclined to malign any of your friends,” he smiled. “Don’t worry, it’s  just a matter of minor preferences,  that’s all.” 

“Oh, well, come to that, I have those, too,” Lex agreed lightly. 

“Still, it’s nice just to have you to myself again.” 

Lex shot him a rueful smile. “That would be a pleasant thought, but I’m afraid you’re not going to have me all that much more to yourself than you already did.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“It means simply that I have an estate to run, one of some considerable significance, and  that we are two weeks past the last rent-day.  I’m expecting my estate manager tomorrow  morning  so that we can go over the latest quarter’s figures and  determine what needs to be  done for the next period. However, I promise you it’s something I only ever do in the mornings,” he added swiftly. “From past experience, it takes a couple of weeks to go through everything, but if you’ll be patient with me every day until lunchtime, I’ll be only too happy to  rejoin  you thereafter.” 

“I’m not some clinging vine, Lex,” Clark said calmly. “Of course I understand you have  work to do. Is there anything I can do to help, or would you rather I just stayed out from underfoot?” 

“Under  foot  is not precisely where I dream of having you,” Lex smirked, and chuckled when Clark coloured. “I suppose,” he went on, in a more thoughtful tone, “you’re hardly ignorant of these matters, given your upbringing.” 

“Don’t refine overmuch on my farming background,” Clark smiled a little. “My educa tion is not exactly adapted to the life of a gentleman farmer, and I have little intention of  becoming one. What I know, I’ve learned from observation through the years, not from any  strong inclinations in that direction.” 

Now that he was alone in his home once more  –  save for the one with whom he very much wanted to share his space  –  Lex had gravitated instinctively towards his library, a room he had more or less managed to keep inviolate  during his guests’ stay. He settled on one of the  sofas, and Clark sat down right beside him, thigh to thigh. Lex held out his arm, along the back  of the sofa, and Clark, with a pleased smile, tucked himself into Lex’s embrace and rested his  dark head  on Lex’s shoulder. 

It moved and amused Lex to equal degrees. Clark had a fondness for his touch that seemed almost a craving. It had become even more marked since Lex had introduced Clark to that ultimate act of possession. With others, and particularly  strangers, although Clark’s  demeanour was perfectly amiable at all times, his intimate space was quite clearly defined. Some got closer than others  –  the Ross boy, Miss Lang or Miss Sullivan, for example. Now, provided with a lover, all his tactile needs had clearly become focused on Lex. Under the circumstances, Lex was inclined to wonder about the gypsy couple that had initially found Clark, though Clark claimed to remember virtually nothing about his life before the Kents took him in. 

What truly surprised Lex, however, was how much pleasure he himself derived from that intimacy. He had never done this, sat like this with a lover tucked under the curve of his arm, simply planning how best to occupy the hours of the day and night. Nor would he ever have considered accepting an offer of assistance in his private affairs from any of his past lovers, if, indeed, they had ever made such an offer, which was something else that was quite new. That, on the other hand, was not unexpected from Clark; he liked to be useful, that had been very evident from the outset. Lex had a rueful thought as he inclined his head a little to rest his cheek against the clean-scented, dark locks. Maybe all this was perfectly normal for other people, and he was the one who had no real experience of affection and intimacy. 

He voiced none of this to Clark; the boy was embarked on his first affair, no need to tie him up in philosophical knots, as well as having to come to terms with a host of new physical sensations. 

“I doubt I’ll need to put you to that kind of trouble, we’re usually fairly well organised. Thank you for the offer, however,” he said. “Will you be able to keep yourself occupied in the interim? Is there anything you’d like to do, or see?” 

“Don’t concern yourself for me. I’ll be fine. You have a lending library’s worth of books,  and I presume I may  always go riding?” 

“Of course.” 

“Then I  might  explore your estates a little, when the weather’s good. Who knows, I may  find things of which even you are not aware. A fresh pair of eyes always sees things differ ently.” He tilted his face up to smile at Lex.

“Whatever you please,” Lex said indulgently.

“What of today?” 

“Today, I’m all yours.” 

Clark’s smile left him in no doubt that that was just  what he had wanted to hear. 

If, however, they spent that day in very pleasant mutual dalliance, the next did not go at all as smoothly as Lex had anticipated. At breakfast, Mitchell brought a message to Lex that had the young lord cursing fluently under his breath, in several languages. 

“What’s the matter?” Clark asked, alarmed. 

“Nixon –  the book-keeper  – has the measles. That means he’s infectious. He’s under  quarantine, basically, and it could last for another two weeks, depending on how robust he is.  He’ll have lodged the rent money already; he’s always hated keeping those kinds of sums on his property, but he still has to tie the receipts to the rent books, so that I know what’s available for reinvestment. That’s painstaking work. He feeds the  books to Templeton, my factor, and me  piecemeal, as he completes them. That’s why it takes so long. It’s only once the task is completed that we can settle on priorities. There are literally hundreds of properties; it’s not just this estate’s revenues we’re talking about, but my entire land holdings. I rely on Nixon’s skill to get me results with which I can work in a reasonably short space of time.” 

Clark leaned forward. “Lex, I’ve done that sort of thing before. I’ve been helping my  mother with  our books since I was thirteen. Let me help you now. I can even go to Nixon’s home. I don’t fall ill very readily, I’m not afraid of catching anything from him. He sounds like a methodical man, from what you say. If that’s the case, I’m sure I can decipher  his system very  quickly, and I’ll write up the ledgers for you, so you can get ahead with deciding what to do with the revenue.” 

“Oh, Clark, it’s very kind of you, but I can’t ask you to do something like that....” 

“Why not?” he returned earnestly. “I wasn’t going to be seeing much of you in the  mornings,  anyway. I know I can do it, truly, Lex. I’m really very good with figures, and I’m  quick, too. It will keep me as well occupied as lounging about here, or gallivanting about the countryside  would do.” 

“You’d have a sight more fun doing the latter!” 

“I know I could keep myself entertained, but don’t you see that it would just be killing time until I could be with you again? This way, I’ll feel that even if I can’t actually be with you,  because  you’re busy, I’m being of some use to you, I’m helping you in some way that’s actually significant, that you really need.” 

That lovely face with its pleading expression, the wide, sincere, aquamarine eyes turned on him, was more than Lex could resist.  He reached across the table to grasp Clark’s hand. 

“If you find it’s more than you can handle, or if you get sick of it, I want to know, do you  understand that, Clark? Making use of you like this is not something I ever anticipated, or wanted to do  to you.” 

Clark’s fingers tightened around his own. “I promise, Lex, but it won’t be a problem, I’m sure of it. If there’s someone  on your staff who has helped Nixon before, just so that I have  someone who knows where everything is, that’s all I need. Everything else will be fine, and I’m more than happy to help.” 

“I can see that,” Lex said softly, in some wonderment. “You are the sweetest creature, Clark. It’s as if you live to help others. Is there any limit to your generosity of spirit?” 

“Of course there is, Lex,” Clark smiled crookedly. “There are some things I could not condone, just as I am sure there are some things you could not.” 

“Oh, I don’t know about that. I’m fairly flexible, morally,” Lex said wryly, almost bitterly. “I think the thing I hate most is being lied to, yet almost everyone I’ve ever met has done  exactly that, to some extent or another. Once you realise that, it all becomes a matter of  degree. Some lies become tolerable, others, never so.” 

“You don’t believe in black and white.” 

“No. There is no such thing.” 

“That’s  a little  difficult for me to accept.” 

“I’m not asking you to accept it, Clark.” He smiled faintly. “I like you the way you are, but part of what you are, is very young.” 

Clark rolled his eyes  a little. “There are only six years between us.” 

“Nearer seven –  and I have lived a great deal during those seven years, which you have  not.” 

“However, you expect me to lose some of my illusions in the years to come?” 

“Of course. We all do.”  


“Believing that there are absolutes is not an illusion, Lex.”

“Believing that there are  only  absolutes is.” 

Clark shot him a look that was a masterful blend of stern and indulgent. “You will not  get me to change my mind.”

Lex chuckled. “I know that. That’s also part of your charm. Come along, let’s get things set up for you.” 

The person on Lex’s staff most accustomed to helping out Mr. Nixon (though it was  largely, from what Clark could ascertain, a job of fetching and carrying) was a young footman  called Colin. Colin had no compunctions going to Nixon’s home to fetch the books for his  lordship’s  convenience. It was Clark who thought to have him bring them to an outhouse first, where he ‘smoked’ them lightly with a concoction of burning herbs, the  secret of which he had learnt from his mother. This was to purge them of any traces of the infection, so that they could be brought into the Park without the risk of contaminating any of the household. Once this was done, Clark set up in the small, but bright office to the rear of the house that Nixon usually occupied at these times, and began to look through the ledgers. 

The job, at this point, was relatively simple. Rent from the various holdings of Lex’s  estates had been collected from the 30th June onwards, against which a copy receipt had to be matched  –  the original being, of course, in the hands of the tenant. Then the receipts had to be matched against the bank deposits. In addition, there were batches of invoices, and receipts for labour, to be entered into the expenses, and matched against scheduled works that had been authorised and subsidised by Lex. There were ten such ledgers, and as they were completed, they were returned to Mr. Templeton. The estate manager and Lex would use these to assess the requests of the tenants for further improvements or repairs, and review and establish priorities. 

It took Clark less than thirty minutes to work out exactly what was needed, and to get to work. It took him slightly longer to figure out how to gauge his preternatural speed against the practicalities of the job, so that he could work quickly, but not excessively so. Of course, when it came to writing, there was always another unavoidable problem  –  it was impossible for him to write as rapidly as he knew he could, for the nibs could not take such speed, and not only wore down impossibly fast, but also tore the paper. Nevertheless, between his speed, and the analytical rapidity of his mind, he was still able to work much faster than even Nixon could have done, and that, he thought, would suit them all nicely, allowing him to be as free in the afternoons as Lex desired. 

Those afternoons were very pleasantly spent. They lunched together, usually in the house, though after the third day, the weather turned so fine, Lex insisted they picnic out of doors. Clark discovered the illicit delights of love-making  al fresco,  for Lex had few inhibitions, and had no compunction in seducing his young lover right out of his clothing, and into a state of complete license there on the shores of the lake. Indeed, Clark found that he loved lying bare in the dappled sunlight; it seemed to energise him and sate him at the same time. Lex laughed,  and called him a satyr, wholly consumed with sensual pleasure, and proceeded to take full advantage  of Clark’s wanton abandon.

In the late afternoon, or early evening, before dinner, Lex would always repair to the library to play his beloved Broadwood. At first, he was reticent about letting Clark sit in on these sessions, for he preferred to be alone to practice. Clark, however, truly wanted to hear Lex play, and not just when Lex thought he was ready  –  he rightly guessed that Lex was such a perfectionist that he would never truly be ready for public performance  –  and swore that he  could be so still, Lex would not even notice his presence. To Lex’s considerable surprise and  amusement, this turned out to be perfectly accurate. Clark would curl up on a sofa with a  book, slightly out of Lex’s line of sight, and proceed  to render himself invisible, figuratively speaking, to the point that Lex would genuinely forget that he was there, and lose himself in his playing as he habitually did. 

As for Clark, he pretended to read, and kept very still, and listened as Lex built up pieces, level by level, right in front of him, including the work Clark had offered him for his birthday. That Lex was a gifted pianist, Clark already knew; just how much work went into making him so, he had never realised. Bit by bit, the technically demanding concert rondo grew, and although the music did not, and could never mean as much to him as it did to Lex, the craftsmanship and the artistry of its construction was laid bare for him in a way no music had ever been before. 

He marvelled at it,  and at Lex’s focus and skill in recreating something that seemed to  live and breathe from a few pages of black and white notes. It was like watching a jeweller at work, all deft, precisely calculated manipulations, to produce something that ultimately seemed completely free and spontaneous. So he passed his mornings in relatively undemanding work, pleased to have a functional,  and not purely decorative role in Lex’s life, and the afternoons and  evenings in unalloyed pleasure at the side of a man more enthralling than he had ever believed possible, and for whom he was growing to care ever more as each day passed. 

It was hard to say exactly when he realised something, in the books he was perusing, felt wrong. That was frustrating, because he knew he needed hard evidence. Nevertheless, the fact remained that when it came to figures, sometimes he saw not just simple arithmetic, but whole, complex, distinct patterns. He was seeing one now, but it had a ripple in it, something that jarred, and disturbed his perception of the whole. It took him a little while to figure it out,  and perhaps it might have gone faster had it not been for Lex’s ‘morning only’ routine. Not that  Clark had any intention of complaining about that, but once he realised there was a problem,  he wanted to fix it, and make a gift of that to Lex, something to repay Lex’s generosity towards  him a little, and to show that he was useful, and not merely ornamental. He did realise that that was his own perception of matters, for Lex never treated him carelessly; on the contrary, he multiplied the signs of trust towards Clark, and Clark already knew enough to know that trust did not come easily to the proud young lord. That was all the more reason for Clark to elucidate this enigma of the ledgers. There was so much he could not tell Lex  –  him or any other  –  that it made him feel guilty. If he could compensate in some way for that silent deception, it would ease his conscience considerably.

Five days after commencing his task, he had found it, or thought so. There were other books that were quite clear, everything tallying without difficulty, without setting off any alarms in his head. He finished these rapidly, so that he could pass them on to Lex and Templeton, and let them get on with their part of this task, but he kept back those wherein he sensed a problem. Now, he thought he had it, but he needed to see for himself, or he would never have any valid evidence. To that end, he called Colin into the office. Colin was a bright lad, eager  to please, and answered Clark’s questions  readily.

“Colin, are there maps of the estates, showing the boundaries of the tenancies?” 

“Yes, sir, but, well, they’re a few years old,” the footman replied, a little doubtfully. 

“How old?”  


“Maybe ten years. Before his lordship came into the title, at any rate.” 

“Would you know if that makes any difference?” 

The young man pursed his lips thoughtfully. “There’s been some changes of boundaries, I know that. I couldn’t tell you which though, sir.” 

“Do you know anyone who could? Mr. Templeton? Mr. Nixon?” 

“Mebbe – though they’re both newish here themselves. Newer than the maps, at any rate.” 

“Lord Rutherford brought them with him?” 

“Well, no, sir, not exactly. Mr. Templeton only started four  years ago. Mr. Nixon took  up his job a little earlier, so I heard, when Mr. Saunders died.” 

“So her ladyship appointed him?” 

“Oh, no, sir. The Duke would have. Her ladyship was long dead by then.” 

“Oh, of course. That was stupid of me. I keep  forgetting His Grace would have had the management of these estates for quite some time, until his lordship came of age. I imagine everything was pretty much ship-shape  then, too,” Clark said casually. 

Colin hesitated. “I wouldn’t really know, sir. I was nobbut a lad myself, then.” 

“Is there anyone who  would  know? Somebody who was around during the Countess’s time, with a good memory?” Seeing Colin’s further hesitation, Clark smiled at him, reassuringly.  “It’s just that I don’t understand one or two things here, in the receipts for work done, and it’d  be easier if I had the maps and could talk to someone who knows what changes have been  made.”

“There’d be my gaffer, sir. He used to be a tenant, but when my da wanted to turn  farrier, and he had no  other child, he gave up the farm and moved to town. He’s got a rare  good memory. He still keeps in touch with the other families,  too. He’d know what’s changed and what’s stayed.” 

“Would he talk to me? If I wanted to see for myself, would he be able to be my guide?” 

Colin chuckled. “Oh, aye, he’s fit enough. Me mam swears he’ll outlive us all! I’ll go see him tonight, if you want, sir, and tell him what you’d like.” 

“Yes, thank you, that would be very helpful. However, please, he’s not to feel  obligated.  I don’t have – I mean, this isn’t something his lordship is requesting, it’s just me trying to get a grip on things, and maybe I’m trying a little too hard...” Clark said diffidently. 

Colin cocked his head a little, intrigued. “Sir, are you saying there’s sommat up with Mr. Nixon’s books?” 

Clark looked at him. “I’m saying nothing at all, Colin. Nor will I, until I know, one way or  another,  for certain.” 

Colin nodded, then added thoughtfully, “You might want to have a word with Mrs.  Jenkins,  sir.” 

“I rather thought Mitchell would be the one to ask for the maps.” 

“For that, aye, right enough, he’ll know where they all are. I meant –  about Mr. Nixon,  sir.” 

Clark looked at him, then nodded briefly. “Thank you, Colin. Let me know tomorrow  morning about your grandfather.  I’ll be ready to come talk to him that same day, if that’s what’d suit him best. Please go and ask Mitchell for the maps of the Park estate.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

Colin left, and Clark rang the bell to the kitchen. When one of the housemaids came up, he asked, winningly, for a mid-morning snack. It was hardly the first time  –  he did have a healthy appetite, there was no denying  –  and, as he had hoped, Mrs. Jenkins herself delivered the tray of bread, cold meats, and a glass of light red wine. 

He thanked her, but stopped her as she was about to leave.

“Mrs. Jenkins, I’d like to ask you something.” 

She turned back, giving him a curious look. “Whatever you wish, Mr. Kent, you know that.” 

“It’s not a service I’m after,  but rather information. May I ask you your impressions of  Mr. Nixon?” 

She was still for a moment, and that told Clark a thing or two in itself. 

“I have nothing particular to say about Mr. Nixon, sir.” 

“Please –  you must have known him for quite some time, ever since he was appointed  here.” 

“Mr. Nixon became factor a little before his lordship came of age and inherited the  Rutherford  estates, Mr. Kent.” 

“You’re saying he was here before you, because I know Lex himself engaged you to look  after  Rutherford Park, Mrs. Jenkins.” 

“Until Lord Rutherford turned eighteen, all this estate was under the control of His Grace.” 

“Didn’t Her Grace still keep an eye on things? This was her home, after all.” 

She gave him a wry look. “Married women have no property, Mr. Kent, don’t you know that?” 

“Ah – well, yes, I know that’s true. Wealthy married women can sometimes retain a good deal of control, however, even if it’s only by the good graces of their husbands.” 

“His Grace isn’t that type. It was  a little surprising he handed over as much as he did to  Master Lex. You don’t need to look twice at him to know that he still regrets that.” That  comment was made with a certain glee, and Clark bit back a smile. 

“You don’t like the Duke very much, do you, Mrs. Jenkins?”  


“That’s no secret, sir,” she returned calmly.  


“Would that have anything to do with how you feel about Mr. Nixon?” 

“I don’t believe I expressed any opinion regarding Mr. Nixon.” 

Clark sighed, and smiled ruefully. “I’m not trying  to trip you up or anything like that, Mrs. Jenkins.  I’m trying to do Lex a service here, and I don’t need to ask to know you think the sun rises and sets on him. There’s a problem, and I’m trying to trace it.” 

“You think Mr. Nixon’s at fault?” 

“I don’t know. I’m trying to ascertain whether he might be. I don’t know the man at all. You, on the other hand, do.” 

She relaxed a little. “You must understand, Mr. Kent, it’s not my place to gossip about  the other employees on the estate, not to one of his  lordship’s guests, and gossip’s all it would be.” 

“I’m just asking for an impression. Would you trust him?” 

“No further than I could throw him,” she replied bluntly. 

“Ah – ” Clark let out a small, startled sound, then collected his wits and gestured  towards  a chair. “Please, won’t you sit down and tell me about it, Mrs. Jenkins.” 

“There’s not much to tell. Call it an ache in my bones, if you like,” she acknowledged wryly, sitting down. Clark sat opposite, fully attentive. “At first, when Lady  Lillian married His Grace, nothing much changed here. Most of the household had been there during the old  Count’s time; the youngest ones had come along pretty much when her ladyship was born. They did their job well, and His Grace didn’t interfere.  But people grow old and die, and they get replaced,  or sometimes they don’t. After Lady Lillian died, well, he didn’t exactly let the  place grow to rack and ruin,  he wouldn’t tolerate that,  but  he certainly neglected it.”  She made a little gesture, expressive of her disapproval of what had happened, and implying that Lady Lillian would have been equally disapproving. 

She went on. “It’s true that Ted Saunders should have retired several years earlier. The factor’s job is demanding, physically, and he hadn’t been up to it for quite some time, but he was well liked, and I don’t think anyone would have tried to cheat him, even though he might not have noticed it if they had. Mr. Nixon’s a very different sort; he has sharp eyes that see into  all sorts of  places, and he’s not popular with the tenants, but it’s a purely personal reaction,  and  I won’t deny that he seems to be good at his job. He was hard with the rent when he was reporting to His Grace, but Master Lex is a kinder landlord. He won’t stand for  nonsense, but if  there’s a good reason, then he’ll make allowances, and from all I’ve heard, Nixon has followed his lead to the letter. So, no, I can’t say that I know, or even that I truly believe he’s dishonest. Just that, if there’s a way to be so, then he knows it. He’s that kind of man.” 

Clark shook his head a little. “I don’t think I quite understand.”

“He has no innocent pleasures. He doesn’t enjoy the company of his fellow men, he doesn’t like to read, or like music. Food and drink are  mere conveniences to him. His outlook is  always cloudy, never sunny. He likes to find fault. He’s a sour creature, and if there’s honesty in him, it’s not for its own sake, but because it makes him feel superior. Not to put too fine a  point on it, sir,  he turns my stomach, but that’s as much as I can say.” 

“You don’t paint an attractive picture, Mrs. Jenkins,” Clark commented quietly.  


“I know. However, I don’t know that it’s one of a dishonest man.”  


“Then why did you say you wouldn’t trust him further than you could throw him?” 

“Because to trust someone is to trust them with the bad as well as the good, and I would never trust him with the bad. He’d take too much pleasure in it, even if he kept faith.” She gave him a little smile. “You’re  maybe a little too young to understand that kind of person,  Mr. Kent.” 

“You might be surprised at what I’ve come across, Mrs. Jenkins.” He hesitated a moment, briefly, before smiling back, and adding, in a confiding tone, “Since this is just between  you and  me, I’ll say that he sounds a bit like my impression of the Duke.” 

She gave him a startled look, tinted with respect. “Yes, there’s that about them both.  Neither would hesitate to use what they know. At least, I know that for a fact with His Grace. I  suspect it about Mr. Nixon.” 

Clark nodded slowly. “All right. Thank you, Mrs. Jenkins, I’m grateful for your help.” 

She got to her feet, and asked hesitantly, “Is he cheating Master Lex?” 

“Someone is,” he said simply. “I’ll find out how, and then I’ll find out who. I just need to understand a few things around here a little better. Then we can put a stop to it.” As she was  about to leave, he stopped her briefly, hesitating before asking,  “May I ask you something  rather personal? Why do you hate  Lex’s father so much?” 

“Because I loved Lillian, and he was the death of her,” she answered simply, and was  gone before he could react. 

Her statement had left him more than a little astonished, and much later than night, as they lay entwined together, he had to ask Lex. 

“Did you know that Mrs. Jenkins thinks your father killed your mother?” 

There was a moment’s silence, then a dry chuckle. “Are you sure you’re quoting her accurately? Didn’t she say, more precisely, that he was the death of her?” 

“Well – yes, but...” 

“Oh, no, there’s a world of difference. Mother died in childbirth. A tragedy, of course, but hardly unusual, even amongst the privileged. There’s no reason to suspect, or even imagine, anything different.” 

“Then why does Mrs.  Jenkins say it the way she does  –  and she really does hate your  father.” 

“Yes. I think – it’s hard for me to be objective about this, because in one sense, every thing I know is hearsay, one way or another. Pamela was  –  is  –  one of the daughters of the parish vicar; well, the preceding one, that is. She grew up with my mother, they played together as children, were taught their lessons together, and as they grew older, I believe they fell in love. When my parents married, Pamela went with Mother to Lanchester Court, and when I  was born, she became my nurse. They couldn’t be separated, and she tells me –  and I know him well enough to believe it  –  that Father resented that quite considerably. 

“When Mother died, of course, he lost no time in sending her packing. I really don’t  recall either of them, Mother or Pamela, from that time to any degree. I was barely three. She came back here, met Mr. Jenkins and married. When I took possession, she was newly widowed and in need of a stable income, so in memory of what she had meant to my mother, I  asked her to take over the household here. It was a courtesy on my part, I didn’t really know  her, but she has proven to be a loyal friend over the last few years, and I value her. She has also told me a lot about my mother. I cannot, however, ignore the fact that she has her own set of prejudices.” 

“So when she says your father was the death of your mother, she’s speaking metaphorically.” 

“More or less. It’s my impression she thinks of my mother as having  been a bird with clipped wings, and that he  –  damaged her in some way. She was not, from my own vague recollections, very happy, that much I can say. Of course, there are many more ways of hurting a person than just physically.” 

Clark nodded slowly.  “If your mother was truly in love with Mrs. Jenkins,” he asked slowly, “why did she marry your father?” 

There was a faint, bitter laugh from Lex. “Be a little realistic here, Clark. Women of  property cannot remain unwed, save in very exceptional circumstances.” 

“Miss Stanton and Miss Dalzell have.”  


“Their individual revenues are quite modest. Combined, it makes for a comfortable  independence for two women whose sole extravagance is the hunt. My mother was a considerable heiress, and a great beauty. There have always been men unscrupulous enough to do  whatever it takes to secure such a prize. Indeed, I’m not altogether sure Father did not do  precisely  that. I’ve read some of her letters. She was a woman of great spirit.”

Clark was shocked. “You can’t mean that he – he...” 

“I asked Pamela that once. She said he’d have been singing soprano for the rest of his  life if he had tried  that.  However, that doesn’t mean that he couldn’t contrive to compromise  her in other ways, beyond all recovery save marriage. Again, that kind of thing is very much in  his nature.” 

Appalled at the very thought, Clark held him close. He was vibrating a little from tension, but then sighed, and relaxed once more. 

“Maybe she was simply aware of the responsibilities  attendant on her status. I understand that, too. I’ll never know with any certitude.” He shifted in Clark’s embrace, and his tone was amused when he spoke again. “Clark, why is it we always have these very earnest discus sions just before going to sleep?” 

“Do we?” Clark smiled. “I hadn’t noticed particularly. Maybe because it’s the one time I can be sure of having your undivided attention.” 

Lex chuckled faintly. “Speaking of which, while I have yours...” 

“You always have mine.” 

“As I was saying,” Lex went on, in an idle tone, “just why were you discussing my father with Pamela?” 

If his face got any hotter, something was going to go up in flames, Clark thought helplessly. Of course, Lex was bound to wonder. Put that way, it sounded like he had been indulging in the worst sort of casual gossip. 

“We – we weren’t, actually. I’d asked her about something else, and it just, sort of, came up?” he offered tentatively. 

“Mm-hm?  This other topic of discussion, would that have anything to do with why  you’ve retained a couple of the ledgers, and have been asking Mitchell for estate maps?” 

When Clark remained silent a little too long, Lex propped himself up on one elbow to look down at him. In the half-light, Clark could see his expression was calm, a little thoughtful. 

“Clark? Are you going to tell me what’s going on? I don’t  imagine for a second that you  have anything other than my best interests at heart, but I am a little perplexed as to why you seem to feel the need to keep silent. If  there’s a problem with the books, it is my right to know  about it. If  you  are having some sort of problem, then why won’t you tell me, and let me help?”

“Oh, no, I don’t have any problems,” Clark reassured him hastily. 

“Then I can only assume there’s a problem with the ledgers.” 

He sighed. “I can’t be absolutely certain just yet, Lex, that’s the thing. I  think  there’s a problem, but I haven’t defined it precisely yet, and I’m not prepared to bring something to your  attention that has little more foundation  than a gut instinct on my part.” 

“I see.” He was silent for a few minutes. “I have looked through these ledgers myself, you know. Not this year, but in the past, and I have to say I saw nothing untoward.” 

“You didn’t actually write them up, however, did you? You didn’t handle all the receipts, going through the various groupings of holdings?” 

“No, of course not, that’s precisely why I hire someone like Nixon.” 

“Except you didn’t actually hire him, either, from what I gathered. You inherited  him  with the rest of the estate and its employees and tenants.” 

“If I’d had any reason to suspect wrongdoing, I can assure you he would not still be in my employ,” Lex said, with an edge to his voice. 

Clark stroked his arm, with another little sigh.  “You see, this is precisely why I hoped to  avoid talking about this until I had some facts, one way or another. Give me a few more days,  Lex, I promise I’ll either be able to show you what has gone wrong, or will be able to say hon estly that I was mistaken  and that everything is as it should be.” 

After a moment, Lex settled back down against him. “I’m not usually the most patient of men. However, I suppose I can contain myself for a few days more.” 

Clark hugged him gratefully. “Thank you.” 

“You’re an enchanter, you know that? I do things for you I’ve never even considered doing for anyone else.” 

“You won’t regret it, Lex.”  


“But someone will, if your suspicions are proven right, believe me.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ￼Disclaimer: Many of the characters used in this work of fan-fiction are the creation and property of DC Comics, Time/Warner and all relevant subsidiaries. No infringement of copyright is intended, and no income of any nature is being derived from its publication


	15. In Which Suspicions Are Confirmed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clark works out the problem, and Lex is not happy.

It was a complicated scheme in one sense, and delightfully simple in another. It hinged on the fact that the most recent set of charts delimiting tenant holdings was actually quite recent, just twelve years old. They replaced a previous set that had been nearly thirty years old. There was nothing unreasonable about that, Clark knew that from what he had seen at home. Charting was a time-consuming and expensive business, and unless there were significant changes in ownership, or other major upheavals, local maps such as these were not renewed too often. In cases of direct inheritance, every thirty or forty years, for a wealthy estate, was considered quite frequent. At any rate, with a set that, at the time, was barely six years old when Lex came into possession of the Rutherford estates, there was no good reason for going to the trouble of commissioning a new one. 

What Clark suspected, and the thought had come mainly from looking at the expenses, was that there had been some shifts in boundary that had not been reported. He took a copy  of the estate maps, rode out to meet Colin’s grandfather, and spent much of the next week  covering all of the local Rutherford estates with the old man serving as guide, both to the land, and to the tenants. He had purchased a blank receipt book from the stationer in Tannisford, and retrieved  all the tenants’ copies of receipts that they had been given by Nixon at the last  quarter day, replacing them with receipts from the new book.

What was instantly apparent was that they were paying more rent than Nixon was reporting. It was generally not a great deal  –  usually around £1 per year  –  and none of the tenants had seen anything unusual or excessive about it, particularly as it had happened during the last years of the war. However, the fraud was not as simple as skimming off the increased revenue. In fact, what had been done was to maintain the presence on the ledgers of two medium-sized properties that had, in fact, been broken up and divided amongst neighbouring tenants. Their rent had, naturally, augmented significantly as a result, but again, that had not appeared in the ledgers. Part of the excess revenue went to maintaining the appearance of the rent payments for these two estates, while the tenants had seen the increase as perfectly normal. The rent had not been raised in some years, and the country had been, at the time, at war. However, once Clark realised that certain fields had been redistributed, and to whom, it shed a new light on the application of expenses claimed for apparent improvements made to these two holdings. 

In practical terms, Mr. Ellis, for example, would make a request for permission to re-point the dry-stone walls of his holding, and would supply a quotation for the work to be done, based on his actual property. That property included part of one of the two dissolved holdings. Therefore, at the same time, someone would create a similar request from the holding for,  perhaps, a partial repair. If Ellis’s request was granted (and they usually were, if reasonable) it  was likely the fake request would be as well. Ellis would get the work done. Any casual ob server, riding through the area, would duly see freshly pointed walls. In the meantime, false  invoices for the work for the “imaginary” property would have been created,  and the sum simply pocketed. Clark calculated that such a procedure brought in a sum of money considerably in excess of what the surplus rent would have represented on its own.

It was a good scheme, not over-ambitious, just a steady, discreet money-earner that netted close to £200 a year, which was a very handsome sum. Clark could perfectly understand why Lex had seen no evidence of misdemeanour. Even Clark was not sure, at first, what it was he had seen, and that was a nuisance, because it would be imperative to show just why he had started investigating. Eventually, however, he realised that it was the coincidence of work orders that had set alarm bells ringing in his head, especially once he had started looking back over previous years. Work orders given on certain holdings immediately found an echo on one or other of the phantom holdings. Yet it was only by going out and questioning the individual tenants, and actually inspecting every last square yard of the territory, that one could be sure of the actual course of events. By the time Clark had worked out the details, it was clear that only Nixon or Templeton could possibly have set up such a scheme. They were the only two with access to all the relevant information and had a considerable degree of autonomy in their working. 

The scales tipped heavily in favour of Nixon for several good reasons. In the first place,  Clark was able to trace the start of the scheme right back to Lex’s inheritance, and Templeton  was a more recent arrival. Secondly, both the farms in question were right here, on the Ruther ford Park estates, and not elsewhere in Lex’s holdings. This was not the kind of scheme that could be operated at arm’s length; it was too risky. Nor would it have  been possible had Lex lived more often at the Park, but given that he spent the great majority of the year in town, or on his travels, that left the local factors with a good deal of independence. Finally, Nixon was a local man, whereas Templeton hailed from the Northeast and made the trip to Rutherford Park quarterly for these occasions. Again, familiarity with local conditions was a prerequisite for such a plan. 

Eventually, Clark was sufficiently confident to lay it all out for Lex, but seeing Lex’s  expression grow tighter and tighter as Clark took him through all the ramifications, Clark was beginning to wish he had never embarked upon this task. He had never seen Lex look like this, white-faced, eyes turned to pools of molten silver. Lex controlled himself physically, but the air fairly vibrated with tension, and it was clear that he was absolutely furious. When Clark had finished his exposition, he simply stood, quite still, for several moments, then turned sharply on his heel. At that instant, Clark grasped his elbow to stop him. 

“What are you going to do?” 

“I’m going to flay the hide off his bones,” Lex ground out, his tone venomous. “I’m going to make him rue the day he ever dreamed of cheating me, and by the time I’m done with him, there won’t be enough left to make stock.”

He had pulled free, and gone to the door, but Clark darted forward and interposed himself between Lex and his access to the hall.

“No, Lex, you can’t do that.” 

“ _Can’t_?” Lex queried, in a dangerous tone. “Can’t? What’s to stop me? You think I’m going to let something like this go unpunished? I’m not about to let any Tom, Dick or Harry think they can help themselves to what’s mine, and I’m certainly not starting with Nixon!” 

“Don’t do this. Don’t just ride out there and half-kill a man...” 

“Who said anything about half!”  


“Lex, please, you must not do this.”  


“Give me one good reason why not!” 

“Because we have a legal system in this country! We’re not savages. There are laws to  deal with this kind of thing. Please, Lex, there’s  enough evidence in here to take to Squire  Langridge.  He’s the magistrate, after all; he’s empowered to handle such matters.” 

“Do you seriously think anyone would question any way in which  I chose to mete out  justice?” 

“No, and that’s precisely why I’m asking you to think again, and not go off half-cocked like this.” 

“This man has been stealing from my estate for seven years now! I am not prepared to  stand by and let him get away with it, and thereby let others imagine they can even attempt the  same thing!” 

“I’m not suggesting you should!” Clark pleaded. “I’m just saying you should turn him  over to the proper authorities, and not take the law into your own hands. That is why we have a legal system, to make the judgements equitable, even-handed, and not something done in  the heat of the moment. What you’re proposing to do is  wrong, Lex. He never had the right to steal from you, no, but neither do you have the right to go out and beat him to death! It is not because you are rich and influential  that you should arrogate such a right unto yourself.” 

“What is to stop me?” 

Clark gripped his shoulders. “I will, if need be.” 

Lex twisted to get free, and found that he could not. He gave Clark a furious look, but the younger man, exerting only a fraction of his great strength, held firm. 

“Please, Lex, listen to me. You cannot do this. Not only is it wrong by the laws of our  land, it is wrong for  you,”  he entreated Lex earnestly. “No man can do this kind of thing, can lie  and cheat and kill,  with impunity, and I’m  not talking about the law. It is a stain on the very  soul.” 

“You think I haven’t killed a man before? You’re very much mistaken there.” 

“What you did as a soldier has nothing to do with the case in hand! This is another  matter altogether. What happens in battle is one thing;  this would be murder, and I’m begging  you, Lex, do not let this happen!  You’re a good man, you’re generous and understanding. Don’t tarnish that with a vile act such as this would be. We have enough  to bring him up before  the law, and if he’s convicted, you know the penalty is deportation.” 

“It’s not good enough!” 

“That’s your pride talking!” 

“Let go of me!” 

“Only if you’ll promise me to take the time to cool off and think rationally about this.” 

Lex transfixed him with a heated glare. “And if, tomorrow morning, I still said I wanted to skin him raw and let him bleed to death on his front porch, would you let me?” 

“I – ” Clark closed his eyes fleetingly, with a little sigh, but did not release  his grip on  Lex’s shoulders. “No, Lex, I would not. It would still be the wrong thing to do.” There was a long pause, and he finally let go. “If you’re bound and determined to go ahead with this, then  tell me to go, and I will. Because I cannot stand by and watch you do something which will ultimately cause you more harm than it will Nixon. He, at least, would be dead, released. You  would have to live with the consequences.” 

He felt as if he was the one being flayed, as Lex’s pale gaze searched  his face, and then Lex turned and went to his desk. 

“Ring the bell,” he said brusquely to Clark, and sat to pen a brief note. 

It was Colin who answered, and waited silently while Lex completed, dusted and sealed the note. 

“You’re to go to Southcote Manor and give this into the Squire’s hands. If he’s not there, wait for him, unless he’s gone away for several days, in which case I want to know  immediately. In the other event, tell him this is of the utmost importance, and requires his immediate attention.”

Colin took the note with a correct little bow. “Yes, my lord,” he said, and was gone. 

“I’ve asked Langridge to come over tomorrow,” Lex explained curtly. “You can show him your evidence then. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have related matters  to attend to with  Templeton.” 

Clark reached out a hand towards him. “Lex...” he began, but stopped short at the  hooded, indecipherable look he got from his lover. Lex was still very angry, and all Clark could do was give him the time and the space to regain his composure. He moved away from the door, and watched, sad-eyed, as Lex stalked out. 

His only consolation was that Lex had not, in fact, told him to go, but it was poor comfort when Lex did not join him for lunch. Nor did he spend his usual hour or so in practise in the library. It was not until dinner that he reappeared, and although he seemed to be quite composed once more, for the first time, Clark felt an awkwardness in their conversation. Lex was certainly deft in steering it away from anything of a personal nature. When Clark declared his intention of retiring for the night, Lex waved him ahead, saying he had one or two things to attend to yet. 

Upstairs, as he undressed in his own room, Clark wondered sadly if his idyll was over. Perhaps Lex was wearying of him already, and their argument that day had merely hastened the end. He looked around the room; even though he had never spent any of his nights there, it was always prepared for him. Tonight, convinced that Lex had lost interest, he put on his nightshirt  –  something else he had had no use for thus far  –  and climbed into the bed, rather  than going through to Lex’s room. 

He let himself become absorbed in his book, not wanting to hear when, or if, Lex came to bed himself, and so was a little startled when the dressing-room door opened unceremoniously. Lex, wearing only his brocade robe, padded up to the side of the bed, his glittering gaze  fixed on Clark’s face. 

“Why are you sleeping in here?” he demanded. 

Clark swallowed.  “I-I wasn’t sure you-you wanted me there tonight...” he stammered. 

Lex reached out, plucked the book from his hands and tossed it aside. He shrugged out of his robe, letting it fall carelessly to his feet, and pulled back the bedclothes. 

He gave no  quarter that night. From the moment he rent the nightshirt from Clark’s  body, to the last, shattering climax, Lex was all over him like some feral thing, aggressively exacting  Clark’s total surrender, and his last shred of response. He handled Clark fiercely,  with precious little of the gentle consideration he had always shown to him in the past, but with a ferocious hunger to which Clark succumbed utterly, tossed in a maelstrom of passion unlike  anything he had experienced up to this point. Even when, for the first time, he found himself  sheathed in Lex’s body, it was something Lex had taken, demanded from him, and it was Lex  who was in absolute control of the act. Clark was little more than a tool in his hands. His reward, if that was what it could be called, was an erotic ride that sent his senses spinning completely out of control.

Lex held Clark on the edge  –  over it, almost  –  for an age, and then let him fall, only to winch him back up again, swiftly and ruthlessly, to keep him suspended on that knife edge yet again for what seemed like another eternity. Clark lost count of how many times it had happened; he knew only that by the end, when the last climax wrung from him was dry, and almost  hurt, he was again reminded of Lex’s talk of flaying that  morning. Clark felt raw, every nerve end exposed and set jangling, and at the same time, almost incorporeal, disconnected from his over-stimulated body. His head spun, coherency a distant memory, and it seemed to take a long time for him to realise that  they were done, that Lex’s wild passion had burnt itself out,  and that he was cradling Clark now, rocking lightly, hands trying to soothe the tremors that shook him  from head to foot. Lex’s body was like an anchor to Clark, he clung blindly, feeling  that he was going to fragment into a thousand pieces and be scattered to the winds if he let go. When he felt Lex stir, trying to withdraw from his hold, he protested wordlessly, and held tighter. 

“I want to get a cloth,” Lex whispered, his voice rough. “That’s all. I’m not going anywhere.” 

Reluctantly, Clark relinquished his grasp, and instead clung to the sheets when he felt Lex slip away from him. However, he could hear Lex moving around, pouring some water out into the basin, splashing a little, then more water. It was reassuring to hear these small noises. He still flinched slightly when a moist cloth stroked gently over his belly, he was so sensitive to the least  pressure or contact, but Lex’s other hand was in his hair, petting and comforting,  and though the cloth felt a trifle coarse, the coolness it left behind was also soothing. Gradually, he  relaxed under Lex’s ministrations, his body growing heavy and languid, fatigue taking the place  of enervation. 

“Do you think you can get up?” Lex asked him softly, after a few minutes. “Just long enough to go next door?” 

“Why?” Clark asked drowsily, or at least, he thought he did, though his voice was little  more than a croak. Lex, however, appeared to understand regardless. 

“You’ll be more comfortable in my bed, it’s fresh and clean,” he coaxed. 

Clark was of no mind to refuse anything Lex wanted, though upon trying to stand, he found his legs were barely able to support him. Lex slipped under his arm to help him, and they made their way through to the other room. More than half asleep, Clark let himself be tucked back into bed, making a faint, contented noise as he snuggled into cool, smooth sheets, and  when Lex slid in alongside him, he turned towards him immediately, looking for his usual place  nestled against Lex’s side. When everything felt as it should, he let sleep claim him properly,  and sank into a deep, dreamless slumber. Lex, however, lay wakeful for a long time, fingers  stroking Clark’s nape with a delicate, relaxing touch.

When Clark woke the following morning, he found that they had both moved, so that  Lex slept spooned against him, his back to Clark’s chest. He was still asleep, and Clark left the  bed very carefully, not wanting to disturb him any sooner than necessary. It was not as early as  he had thought; Raffaele had been in. There was fresh water in the ewers, Lex’s robe was back in its usual place, with Clark’s alongside it, and when Clark went back through to the other  bedroom, which he usually did to wash and dress, the bed there was newly made, and there was no sign of the torn night-shirt. Clark felt his cheeks heating, wondering what the valet  would have made of that, but all of Lex’s servants were too well trained to let any opinions  show, he knew that. 

He was reaching blindly for the towel to dry his face when he felt it placed into his hands. Then, cool arms slid around his waist, and a gentle kiss pressed against his back, between his shoulder-blades. He started slightly, and then laughed a little. 

“You move so quietly when you want to,” he said, straightening and leaning back a  fraction. 

“So do you. I didn’t feel you leave the bed.” There was another little kiss, and then a hand smoothed over his skin. “Flawless,” he added, an odd note in his voice. “Not a mark on you.” 

“What do you mean?” 

There was a faint sigh, and he felt Lex press his forehead against his shoulder. “Clark – I’m sorry. Sorry for last night, I shouldn’t have....” 

“Lex, no, don’t say that.” Clark turned in his loose embrace. “There wasn’t – There’s no  need to apologise. You  – I’m not hurt, and you didn’t – didn’t do anything to me I didn’t want.” 

“That’s debatable, though I can see for myself you’re not hurt. Nevertheless, if you’d  been the most seasoned of doxies in some sea-port brothel, I could not have used you harder,  and you a virgin less than a month ago.” 

“Is that what one gets up to in sea-port brothels?” Clark asked provocatively, and  despite himself, Lex laughed. 

“Wretched brat! Don’t change the subject.”  


“You brought it up,” he smiled, but then sobered, seeing that Lex was not really in a  teasing  mood. “Just tell me one thing, Lex. How much of last night was done out of anger?”

“Against you?” He looked startled. “I –  no. I was  –  I was a little put out when I found you in bed in here, yes, I admit that. However, I think, if I was angry at anyone, it was at myself.” He moved in closer, resting his head against Clark’s shoulder, and Clark willingly closed his arms around his slim form. “You held up a mirror to me yesterday, and I didn’t  much like  what I saw in it. That was a bitter pill to swallow.” 

“That was hardly my intent.” 

“It was still the result. I wasn’t truly angry, though. If anything, you might say I was  harbouring a certain degree of resentment towards you, and I knew that was irrational, too. I felt  – I felt a loss of control, and wanted to regain it.” 

“Why would you resent me?” Clark asked, in a small voice. 

Lex put his head back to look up at him. “Do you truly have no  notion of how deeply  you’ve enmeshed yourself in my life? I have never had a lover who impinged in any way upon my normal activities, or, indeed, on any aspect of my life other than there.” He gestured  towards the bed. 

“I thought we were friends as well as lovers.” 

“And I thought the two never mixed. You would appear to be proving me wrong,” he said wryly, “and I am – confused about it.” He made as if to detach himself from Clark. “Don’t worry, I will not let you suffer for it again.” 

“Lex, did you hear me say ‘no’ so much as once last night?” 

“My sweet Ganymede, within ten minutes, you were incapable of coherent speech,” Lex returned dryly. “What I know is that I exercised such arts on you as to wring you dry, and that  were you anyone else, you  should barely be able to walk today.” 

Clark caught him close again. “The only thing I regret, in a very small way, is that when  you chose to  – to ride me,” he said, blushing, “I was in no state to fully appreciate the moment,  or the act, and I would very much like to repeat the experiment under more  –  relaxed circumstances.” 

“Would you now?” Lex looked amused. “Well, that can be arranged, but not for a  while. While you have clearly come out of the event scatheless,  I  am feeling the after-effects of  a little too much friction, and will not, I think, be terribly amorously inclined for a day or so.” 

Clark was alarmed. “God, Lex, why do you concern yourself about me when  you’re  the  one hurt? What did I do? How bad is it?”

Lex batted his anxious  hands away lightly. “Stop that. You did nothing in particular.  Maybe your fingerprints are a little more pronounced than usual, but they cause me no discomfort. The friction, on the other hand, is entirely my own doing, and is what I deserve for being  so greedy with you last night. You’re really very good at leaving your hands where I put them, even when you’re half-crazed with lust,” he added approvingly. 

“Lex....” 

“I’m not teasing you,  not really.” 

Clark was silent for a moment. “What did you mean, when you said there wasn’t a mark?” 

“The same thing I meant when I said you shouldn’t be able to walk,” he replied  obliquely. 

“And that is?” Clark prompted tentatively. 

“Oh, Clark, did you really think I hadn’t already noticed that there are a  few unusual  things about you?” Lex sighed heavily. “One cannot get intimate with another person –  or at least, not on a regular basis over several weeks  – and not notice such things. However, I’ve determined not to enquire, so set your mind at rest.” 

“Why not?” Clark asked, after another pause 

“I don’t pry...” Lex began, in a somewhat lofty tone. 

Clark could not help himself; he burst out laughing. “Lex, that’s a corker if ever I heard one! You’re the most inquisitive man I’ve ever met.” 

Lex sighed,  and pulled a face at him. “You don’t want to know why I’m not asking any  questions.” 

“Well –  yes, I do. If  – if you’ve noticed something....” 

Lex put his fingers lightly over Clark’s lips. “I don’t ask, because I don’t want you to lie to me,” he  said soberly. 

Clark’s eyes went very round, but as he would have spoken, Lex increased the pressure  of his fingers, to silence him. 

“No, let me finish. I have observed what I have observed. Amongst those things that I  have observed, is that you lie to, or at least, conceal from everyone. I can understand that you  may have secrets you choose to hide from the world at large. In many respects, we all do, to a greater or lesser degree. I can accept that. I can also accept that there may be one or two exceptions; your parents, I assume, are cognisant, and I suspect Mr. Ross might be, simply because  you’ve been close friends since you were both very young. All of that is clear and  logical to me, and I accept it. However, were I to ask you directly, I do not know what kind of an answer I would get from you. You conceal this thing so deeply, so instinctively, that I think you  would lie to me, out of pure reflex, if nothing else, and I could not abide that. I don’t wish to  lose you, however. The alternatives are therefore very simple. I do not ask, and hope that, perhaps, one day, you will feel sufficiently confident of our relationship to tell me what it is that I do not know. In the interim, I will ask you simply, if you cannot tell the truth, to do as you  would do normally, and reveal as little as you possibly can.”

He kept his fingers over Clark’s mouth until  he nodded slowly, though his expression  revealed the conflicts within him. Then he drew Clark’s face down and kissed him lingeringly. 

“Don’t tell me nobody warned you about me,” he murmured softly against Clark’s lips, when he broke the kiss. “I refuse to believe that you weren’t told I was a complicated sort of fellow.” 

“That just made you all the more fascinating,” Clark whispered back,  smiling a little, returning  Lex’s kisses with interest. “Mmh – can we go back to bed?” 

Lex chuckled. “No. Thanks to you, we have an appointment with Squire Langridge this morning, or have you forgotten already?” 

Clark made a faint, protesting noise,  then sighed, and dropped his head to Lex’s shoulder. “I’d forgotten already. Satisfied?” 

“You really are a wretched brat,” Lex complained. “I told you, I’m incapacitated for  today.” 

“With your experience of sea-port brothels,” Clark whispered wickedly, “are you sure there’s  nothing  we could do?” 

Lex knotted his fingers in Clark’s hair and tugged his head back sharply. “Don’t tease me. I have toys that would send you running for the hills,” he threatened, in a salacious tone. 

“Well, if it’s  these  hills....” Clark slid his hands beneath Lex’s open robe and caressed his  rear end purposefully. 

“I’ve created a monster,” Lex moaned. “I’ve heard of lusty farmboys, but this is ridiculous!” He extricated himself from Clark’s roving grasp. “Get  dressed, Clark, I do need you to  explain the detail of this matter to the Squire.” 

 

&*&*&*&*&*&

 

Lex was in a rage again two days later, having discovered that Nixon had somehow got wind of the whole matter, and fled. It was not, however, like the previous occasion. This time, he threw a regular tantrum, broke a few objects (nothing, Clark noted with carefully concealed amusement, to which he was particularly attached), sulked royally at having been balked of his prey, and then allowed himself to be cajoled into a more reasonable frame of mind. Clark was much happier with this kind of display, it did not frighten him nearly as much as the icy fury of earlier. Truth be told, he thought Lex in a pet was rather adorable, but he knew better than to let that slip; Lex would have been mortally insulted. 

As far as Nixon was concerned, the Runners were put on the case, with the specific brief to watch the ports, while the local constables remained on the lookout for the runaway, but Lex was more or less resigned to the likelihood that the man would probably not be caught now. He spent a tedious day penning letters to all his various property managers, informing them of the latest developments, and things settled back into the normal course of affairs. 

“Although,” Lex grumbled, “where I’m to find another general factor before the next  quarter-day,  I do not know.” 

“Well...” Clark began hesitantly. 

“You have a suggestion?” 

“As a matter of fact, you could probably do a lot worse than Colin, though he might not  be ready  for Michaelmas.” 

“Colin?” 

“Lex,” Clark sighed exasperatedly. “You know the name of every servant, employee and tenant you have, I know you do.” 

“And a lot of them have the same names,” he returned blandly. 

“The footman who helped me with the books.  The  same  footman who’s been assisting Nixon this last couple of years.” 

“Oh,  that  Colin.” 

They were in the summerhouse again, on another rainy afternoon, lazing on the large  divan after their exertions. Clark pressed his lips to Lex’s stomach and  made a rude noise, knowing it would tickle him. Lex boxed his ear lightly. 

“Stop that. So – you think Colin’s a likely prospect. Tell me, can he even  write?” 

Clark grimaced. Lex, with his usual unerring instinct, had put his finger directly on the  principal difficulty.

“Well, no. He can read, though,” he went on quickly, then added honestly, “sort of, and he’s very, very quick with the arithmetic. Numbers are no problem to him. That’s why I said, maybe not for September, but I’m sure if you got him schooled, he’d learn quickly enough for  Christmas.” 

“You obviously think he’s honest.” 

“Yes. Yes, I’m sure of it. I’m also sure he’d be keen enough for the opportunity. If you gave him this chance, it would be a serious step up for him. He’s  the third or fourth of about eight children, the increased income would be very welcome to the whole family, and even if you only paid him half of what you paid Nixon, to start with, there would be enough both to make life easier for his parents, and to allow  him to set up his own household. I know he’s courting.” 

Lex gave him an amused look. “What is it about you? I swear you know every last detail about all my servants’ lives. They just seem to want to pour it out to you.” 

“They’re people like any others, Lex,” Clark said gently. “You’re a good master, you  treat them well and fairly, and most of them like you very much, but they cease to exist for you  when you don’t see them. That doesn’t mean that they just disappear. They have lives, and  families,  and concerns of their own.” 

“ _Most_ of them like me?” 

“Trust you to pick up on that,” Clark grinned crookedly. “There are always some people who are never happy. Well, Nixon’s surely a case in point. I can’t imagine why he felt the need  to steal from you; you were paying him a very handsome salary. Unless he was living a double life as some high-flyer  at the tables in London or Bath or somewhere like that, I don’t really  understand  his motives.” 

“Some people are bad just because they can be,” Lex said dryly. “Some people will try anything, just because they can. I should know, I’m one of that sort.” 

“The last thing you are is suicidal, Lex. Nixon stealing from you was suicidal. In a social sense, I mean.” 

“Damn near in a physical sense, too,” Lex muttered darkly.  


“Yes, well, obviously he understood that, or he wouldn’t have run so quickly,” Clark  pointed out matter-of-factly.

“Mmh. Pity he didn’t know I have my very own guardian angel to hand to keep me from  my more  –  extreme  –  impulses,”  Lex retorted. “He might actually have been apprehended then.” 

Clark rolled his eyes. He had given up apologising to Lex for stopping him from going after Nixon immediately. 

“Anyway, to come back to Colin....” 

“Who will not be ready for Michaelmas.” 

“No, probably not, though it wouldn’t hurt to have him sit in on the whole process. In the interim, having done it once, I can certainly do it again,” he suggested tentatively. 

Lex smiled at him affectionately, and stroked long fingers through  his black curls. “Dear Clark, that’s very sweet of you, but hardly realistic. You’ll be starting term.” 

“Well, not quite, you know. Official start is the 4th  October. I could get quite a lot done between the 29th and the 4th,  given the chance.” 

“Oh, right, and you want me to bring all the ledgers, and all the attendant paperwork, to your accommodations in Oxford,” Lex remarked, amused. 

Clark bit his lip, confounded. He had not been thinking, merely accepting that he knew for a fact that he could make the trip from Oxford to Rutherford Park in less than ten minutes. He could have kicked himself; this was precisely the sort of detail about which he should always be more careful in revealing or concealing, especially in front of a curious and highly observant individual like Lex. 

A warm hand caressed his flank languidly.  


“Hadn’t considered that, had you?”  


“Um – no,” he admitted sheepishly.  


Lex chuckled. “You’re such a funny boy. You’re so clever, and yet so impractical.” 

“Sorry,” Clark  sighed. 

“Don’t be. It’s part of your charm. Thank you for the offer, however. Under different  circumstances,  I’d be very happy for you to take on that task. You’ve more than proven your competence.” 

“Lex, I could still....” 

Lex put his hand firmly  over Clark’s mouth. “No. Don’t even think of it.” He removed his hand and kissed Clark gently. “You have a scholarship to study in Oxford, for heaven’s sake! You can’t turn your back on that kind of opportunity. You’ve worked hard for it, I know  that,  and you’re not going to throw it away now.” 

“I hadn’t met you,” Clark said softly. 

“I’m the worst of all possible reasons for giving that up. Besides,” he added, in a diffident tone, “I’ve asked Havrelack to look into suitable accommodation for me in Oxford.” 

Clark stared. “You – you’re considering taking lodgings in Oxford?” 

“I could stay in an hotel, of course, but one’s comings and goings are so much subject to public scrutiny. It’s not so far from London, after all, for weekend visits....” 

He got no further; Clark engulfed him in a passionate embrace, and proceeded to make love to him until he lay boneless and satiated in the bed. 

When he had recovered his breath, he laughed a little. He was stroking Clark again; he could not keep his hands from the pure lines of that exquisite form. 

“I take it that plan meets with your approval,” he teased, his voice husky. 

“Yes! Oh, yes, Lex, that would be beyond anything, to be able to continue seeing you! I - I didn’t know how to ask if you’d at least write to me,” Clark confessed shyly, “but I would have. I couldn’t bear the idea of losing contact with you altogether.” 

“Nor could I,” Lex said thoughtfully. “You’ve become very precious to me, Clark. I don’t  fully understand how or why, but  there it is.” 

“You speak as though such as thing was a weakness,” Clark commented, with a note of  regret in his voice. 

“I was taught that affection is a flaw, a chink in the armour, a fault in the steel, and I’ve  seen plenty of evidence to support it; men and women tricked by a pretty face, betrayals of supposed friendship, all of that sort of thing. Keeping a clear head has always seemed highly advisable.” 

“Staying on your guard eternally is very wearisome, though, Lex.” 

Lex tweaked his nose playfully.  “You are the very last person who should be lecturing me on that point, my sweet.”

For a moment, Clark honestly did not understand what he meant, then light dawned,  and he coloured hotly. “Lex, I....” 

Lex kissed him swiftly. “I told you,” he said, very softly, “don’t ever lie to me, not directly. If you cannot tell me the truth, don’t tell me anything at all. You will, however, just  have to accept  that I know what I know.” 

What Lex knew was a bare fraction of the truth, Clark was aware of that. He knew that Clark was very strong, and he knew that he was impervious to the normal small aches and pains that plagued most people  –  especially people as clumsy as Clark tended to be, when distracted  –  but Clark did not think that he had given himself away much beyond that. He wished he could tell Lex the rest, but years of indoctrination were too effective in keeping him silent. He would only give his secrets away when there was no other option. He just hoped that Lex would continue to understand that. 

“Will you write to me nevertheless?” he asked instead. “For all the times you can’t come?” 

“If you wish,” Lex agreed, amused. “Though I should warn you, I’m no great correspondent. My letter-writing is usually confined to matters of business.” 

“You’ll improve with practice,” Clark smirked.  


Lex grumbled something  sotto voce,  no doubt uncomplimentary.

 

&*&*&*&*&*&

  


The remainder of the summer passed in an idyllic rapture. Clark was happier than he had ever been before. He loved his parents, his home, and the friends he had made, but being with Lex was something quite different. It was as if Lex completed him. He both challenged  and stimulated Clark intellectually, he fed Clark’s curiosity eagerly, and their debates could  become like verbal foreplay. They often  were  a form of foreplay; Clark had lost count of the number of times an argument had ended with a passionate embrace, and a hasty displacement to the nearest horizontal surface to satisfy their desires. Lex touched and answered things in him, in every sense, that no one else ever had nor, Clark suspected, ever would. 

When Lucas visited them again in August, Clark began to see a glimmer of hope for a future with Lex. After leaving the house party in July, Lucas had been invited by the Sullivans to join them for a spell in Brighton, an opportunity for him to advance his case with Chloe at which he had jumped with alacrity. Evidently, from one or two things he let slip, he was making good progress. If Lucas were to marry soon, and if the couple were to start a family, it was just possible that Lex might consider his succession secured, and not feel obligated to find a wife of  his own. Clark knew that Lex had no particular desire to marry, but that, even aside from his father’s  nagging, he  was conscious of his duty. Clark was saying nothing; he had no right to try to influence Lex in any way on that particular subject, regardless of his own feelings, but with every day that passed he grew more sure that he was in love with Lex and wanted nothing more than to spend the rest of his life with him. It would break his heart if Lex decided to marry, for while there were those who felt no qualms in entertaining a lover alongside a spouse, Clark was not one to accept such a situation, and he did not think Lex was, either, for all his somewhat rakish reputation. No, Lex would honour his vows, and that would be an end to their physical relationship. Clark did not know if he had the fortitude to go back to being no more than a friend, from having been a lover.

There was another visit during August, a slightly perplexing one. Clark was out on a paper-chase with young Langridge and a few other young gentlemen of the county. Lex had been invited, but clearly considered such amusements a little beneath him; he had, however,  encouraged Clark to participate if he wished. Clark had therefore gone to the Squire’s house  for breakfast, taken part in the run, and returned to the mansion for a late lunch with all the party once the chase was completed. He returned to the Park in the late afternoon, to find that Sebastian Veryan had come by during the day. What was surprising, however, was that he was leaving again. Clark barely had the time to exchange greetings before Veryan rode off again. 

“He’s not staying for dinner?” he asked Lex. 

“No.” 

Clark gave him an odd look. “That’s a long way to come just for a chin-wag.  Not to  mention a long way to go back home again at this time of the day.” 

Lex slanted him an amused glance in return. “Not so far.  He has friends in Wiltshire, or somewhere  like that. He’s not going all the way back to London.” 

“Did you argue?” 

“He – wanted to sound me out on something. I was not encouraging. I wouldn’t say we argued, but it’s not my problem if he wants to sulk about it. Don’t concern yourself for Seb, he can look after himself.” 

A little later, however, he asked casually, “Tell me something, did you like Seb?” 

“He seems like good company,” Clark answered diplomatically. 

“Which tells me strictly nothing,” Lex returned dryly. “You can be honest with me, Clark, I won’t take offense, I promise you.” 

“Well – he does seem like good company. He’s bright and he’s witty and he knows all  the latest gossip...” 

“But?”

“You’ll think I’m just being silly.” 

“Try me.” 

Clark took a deep breath. “There’s something about him that unsettles me. I can’t put my finger on it, it’s nothing he’s done or said – well, one or two things he’s said, but he could  have said them to any of us. He can be  –  a bit suggestive at  times.” 

“He can be a good deal more than  a bit  suggestive, but go on.” 

“I just felt like he was always watching me.” 

“You are sort of eye-catching, you know,” Lex pointed out, with mild humour. “I’d have thought you’d be used to that by now.” 

“Yes,  but there are different ways of looking at people. I mean, your father makes me  uncomfortable, but that’s because he looks at me as if I was a bug under a microscope.  All the time he was here, I had to stop myself from checking my cravat was tied correctly, or that I  didn’t have a piece of salad stuck in my front teeth.” He smiled, as Lex grinned fleetingly. “Yes, precisely. I mean, I didn’t enjoy the sensation, but I could cope with it. Veryan –  Veryan looks at me differently. He  –  Lord Swann would look at me like that, and I have to say it sort of makes  my skin crawl.” 

“I never look at you like that?” 

Clark shook his head. “No. You just look as if you like what you see.” 

Lex was silent for a moment. “I first met Seb in Brussels, just after  Waterloo. We were....  Things  in general were a little wild then. Between being very young, and the very real  danger I’d been in, and the exhilaration of the victory, I was more than a little out of control,  and Seb was a companion up for any kind of mischief I could think of, not to mention having a few suggestions of his own. For a couple of years, whenever I was on leave, and just after I resigned my colours, we were partners in debauchery. Once I settled down in England again, I began to outgrow that phase, and Seb had the wit to see that for himself. He found other companions for his wilder amusements, and retained a place in my entourage as an entertaining rattle, and occasionally a little more. I think, however, he sometimes still has certain expectations of me based on our initial acquaintance, and it is proving difficult to set the record straight. It is maybe time for me to terminate the association altogether. If ever you find  yourself in Seb’s company, without my presence, do yourself a favour  and try to avoid him.  He’s not really a recommendable  acquaintance.” 

With that oblique warning, Clark had to be content. Lex did not say another word on the subject, neither that night nor at any other time, and life went on, until the very end of the month, when he received a letter from London. 

“It’s from Mr. Ross,” he told Lex over breakfast. “They’re back in town, and he says there are letters for me just in from King’s, and from some lawyer in London who’s handling the  disbursement of my scholarship  funds.” 

“In short, you must return to town yourself.”  Clark nodded, his expression unhappy.  


“It’s not as if we haven’t been expecting it.” 

“I still wish the summer would never end.” 

Lex reached out and ruffled the black curls affectionately.  “You’ll soon be too busy to  miss any of this. Come on, if I give the orders now, we can be ready to leave in forty-eight  hours.” 

“We? You’re coming with me to London?” Clark asked hopefully. 

“Not quite,” Lex said regretfully. “I see no reason to stay on here if you’re leaving, but I  needed to go to Devon, anyway. However, I should be back in town within a couple of weeks.  As I said, I’m sure you’ll have plenty to keep you occupied in the interim. Now, come, we both have letters to write.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ￼Disclaimer: Many of the characters used in this work of fan-fiction are the creation and property of DC Comics, Time/Warner and all relevant subsidiaries. No infringement of copyright is intended, and no income of any nature is being derived from its publication


	16. In Which There Is An Observer With Ill Intent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clark enjoys his return to London, even though Lex is absent, but he is unaware of another party's evil intentions.

 

Five days later, Clark was once again installed in Adam Street, warmly welcomed back by Mr. and Mrs. Ross, and their children. There was much he could, and did tell them about his stay at Rutherford Park, similar details to those he had included in his periodic letters to his parents over the summer. He kept the more intimate details to himself, cherishing them like pressed flowers whose faded, yet persistent scent evoke sweet memories, although Pete did manage to worm some titbits from him, by dint of much teasing.

The autumn Season, less important, but rarely less glittering than its spring counterpart, was starting up, as the _ton_ gradually returned from their summer retreats. Some balls were already announced, and the pleasure gardens were determined to make the most of what remaining fine weather there was, before winter forced them to shut their gates. Clark had been to see the university-appointed lawyer about his scholarship, and had a list of books and other items to purchase with funds allocated for that purpose. He spent much of his days in one shop or another, as a result (particularly bookshops, rather to Pete’s irritation) but his nights were as free as they had ever been, and the two friends went out regularly, to the theatre or the circus, to the odd prize fight, or to the gardens. Pete would be returning North with his family in November; not for him the circles of academia, and Clark, after spending virtually the whole summer away, wanted to make up for any neglect Pete might have felt.

It was at Vauxhall that they ran into some of the people whose acquaintance Clark had made at Rutherford Park. Clark heard his name hailed across the rotunda, and turned to see Major Pyatt waving to attract his attention. He had liked Pyatt, so was quite happy to cross the floor to their box, and introduce Pete to the Major, his wife, and Captain Fordman.

Some imp prompted him to tease the rather stiff young captain a little.

“I half expected to see Miss Lang in your company, since you’re here, Captain,” he remarked, with his most innocent air.

As expected, Fordman pokered up somewhat. “Miss Lang will be returning to town at the end of the month. I was very pleased to further my acquaintance with her during our stay in Brighton,” he said formally.

Jenny Pyatt was not fooled. “I decided Whit needed a little break from the lists, from which he – temporarily, you understand – retires, bloodied, but unbowed.”

Clark grinned. “Lady Potter?”

She just gave a gurgle of laughter, but Fordman relaxed suddenly, with a rather charming smile. “She’s a tough nut to crack, that one,” he admitted frankly.

“Y’know,” Pete said cheerfully, “I reckon she’s the one who ought to be getting hitched again. She wouldn’t be plaguing Miss Lang so much if she had someone of her own to look after. It shouldn’t be so hard – she’s got a lot going for her, when you look at it objectively.”

Jenny clapped her hands with glee. “Oh-ho! A romance for Lady Potter. What a famous idea! If she was preoccupied that way, she wouldn’t be breathing down my poor brother’s neck every second he’s trying to fix his interest with Miss Lang. Now, who could we find for her?”

From across the rotunda, sombre, dark eyes broodingly fixed the laughing group of young people, in particular Clark Kent’s handsome figure. He knew he could not be seen from the floor; he was seated a little back in the box, but he had a good view. He reached for the decanter sitting on the small card table to pour some more Madeira into his glass. He was a trifle foxed, but he thought he could not really bear to be quite sober, not with that vision dangling so tantalisingly out of reach. He had never been so obsessed with anyone before or, at least, not since a certain copper-haired subaltern, years before, in Brussels.

“May I trouble you for a glass of wine?” a smooth voice inquired from behind him.

He would know those urbane tones anywhere. He came to his feet with a start, almost knocking over the table, but a long-fingered hand deftly steadied it.

“Your Grace!”

“Good evening, Mr. Veryan. Forgive the intrusion. I saw you sitting alone, and I’ve been reliably informed you always have excellent Madeira to hand. I wondered if I might prevail upon your hospitality briefly?”

“Of course, sir, with pleasure.”

He leaned out of the box to snap his fingers for a waiter, and order a fresh glass, which appeared promptly. When he poured the wine for Lanchester, he found his hand was shaking a little. For all Lanchester’s civility, they were not normally on terms of anything but the most casual acquaintance, and he was at a loss as to why the duke should choose to favour him with his company at this time. Lanchester accepted the glass with a gracious little nod, and sat in a chair across the table from Veryan, facing out in the same direction. That meant that he was equally hidden from the floor, and could see pretty much everything Veryan had been seeing. He sipped at the Madeira, and made an appreciative sound.

“I see I was not misled. Very palatable indeed.”

“Thank you, sir.”

The sherry brown eyes roved over the assembly with casual interest, before settling on the same box that had been the focus of Veryan’s interest only minutes earlier.

“Is Lex refusing to share his toys?” When Veryan hesitated, not knowing how to answer, Lanchester made an impatient little gesture. “Oh, come now. I have always known much of what Lex gets up to, at least when he’s in the country. You’ve been known to share partners on more than one occasion, for quite some years now. Yet I see you watching Mr. Kent with an air.... Well, let us say, were you a wolfhound, and he a bone, you could not look hungrier. So I’m assuming Lex has denied you access to his latest conquest. I can quite see why you might be feeling a little aggrieved at that, he really is extraordinarily handsome. Have you tried approaching him directly?”

Though disconcerted, Veryan laughed, a little angrily. “He’s completely oblivious. Short of propositioning him outright – and Lex made it rather clear that he would not appreciate that.”

“He may not be as oblivious as you think. Of course, he’s on to a good thing, as they say, with my son, there’s no denying that. Lex is out of town at present, however, and will remain so at least until the last few days of the month.”

Veryan was getting mightily intrigued now. “We’re not often in the same circles, sir.”

“No, but you’re both here, for example, and you are acquainted. He might accept a simple invitation, particularly if it’s for a good cause.”

“A good cause?”

Lanchester took another sip of the wine. “I understand your friend Mr. Holt has been poorly lately.”

“That’s true.”

“Housebound.”

“Also true.”

“He must be getting rather bored.”

Veryan grinned fleetingly. “To put it mildly.”

“He’s not quarantined, however? A small card-party at home might cheer him up a little. Mr. Kent’s the type to respond to that kind of thing.”

Veryan gave him a slanted look. “Just because he’s inclined to play the Good Samaritan, and accept an invitation to a card party, doesn’t mean that he’ll accept the other kind of invitation, once the play is over.”

“Oh, most people respond to the right kind of environment. A little relaxation, a little stimulus. Good wine is usually the simplest solution, but there are ways to enhance those effects.” He drew a card from an inner pocket and placed it on the table. “I have some acquaintance with an apothecary in Stephen Street, just to the north of the end of Oxford Street. A useful sort of fellow. He has a particular knack for all sorts of rather surprising concoctions. I’m sure he can help you with something to help Mr. Kent... unwind a little. Just give him that; he’ll understand your requirements.”

Veryan took the card. There was only one word on it, which he could not understand, and the letter ‘L’. On the other side was printed the name and address of a chemist’s shop.

“You’re being very helpful, Your Grace,” he said cautiously.

Lanchester stood, with his usual casual grace. “I think Lex is being a little foolish putting this young man on a pedestal. He’ll come back down to earth when he sees that Mr. Kent is no more or less than anyone else.”

“What if he is, though? More than anyone else?”

“How badly do you want him, Mr. Veryan?” Lanchester asked softly, and was gone before Veryan could answer.

Lex had always said his father took a close interest – too close – in his affairs, but this was the first time Veryan had come across it first hand. Lex had been clear enough when Veryan had visited him at Rutherford Park; Kent was off-limits until further notice, and there was no indication at all when that further notice might come. This was the first time Lex had ever denied Veryan access to any playmate in whom Veryan had been interested, but, great gods, Kent was something else again! He contemplated the small card in his fingers, then looked across at the merry group once more.

Yes, maybe Lanchester was right. A card party to entertain his sick friend – Kent had met Christopher at Rutherford Park, too – and maybe Captain Fordman would be the perfect foil. They were also acquainted; similar reasoning might work with him, he seemed like a good-natured fellow. It would be easy enough to get him drunk, pour him into a cab and off home, with plenty of assurances that he would do the same for Kent, except Kent’s glass would have been spiked with this little additive, and he would not be going anywhere. He was hardly planning on maiming the man, just enjoying that magnificent body. In the morning, maybe Kent would not be so off-hand about such things. The more Veryan thought about it, the more he thought the whole idea held real promise. He finished his glass, tucked away the preciouscard, and left his box, to find the opportune moment to accost Kent and Fordman.

 

&*&*&*&*&*&

 

When the door opened, Lex strode in, without waiting for an invitation. In the hall, he removed his hat and gloves, and held them out to be taken, with an air that brooked no opposition.

“I am the Marquis of Rutherford. Tell Mr. Kent that I would speak with him.”

The butler floundered. “My lord, Mr. Kent...”

“Mr. Kent is on the premises. I am fully aware of the fact. I will not leave until I have spoken with him.”

Lex had picked his moment carefully, waiting for most of the Ross family to be absent, knowing, from the observation he had had his servants carry out over the last few days, that Clark rarely left the house. Sure enough, after several minutes wait, which he endured patiently, Clark descended from the upper levels, with a slow, hesitant step. Lex bit back an exclamation at the sight of his young lover; Clark’s complexion was ashen, his eyes dull, his mouth turned down in a desolate curve.

“Lex,” he said, mutedly.

“Clark,” Lex nodded. “I think we need to be in private for this conversation.”

Clark made a gesture towards the front room, but Lex shook his head.

“No, Clark, I mean really in private. Somewhere the Rosses won’t venture when they come back to the house. Somewhere we can talk,” he stressed.

“There’s nothing to...”

“Don’t tell me that!” Lex cut him off in a fierce undertone. “You’ve been avoiding me for days, and you don’t want to know what I’ve been hearing!”

Clark was silent for a moment, then said, listlessly, “Maybe you’d better come up to my room.”

Lex followed Clark up the stairs to his bedroom, and locked the door after them. Clark barely paid attention to that, but slumped on the bed, as if dreading what Lex was going to say next.

Lex crossed the room to stand in front of him. He slipped a hand under his chin to raise his face, but Clark flinched away from him, and he dropped his hand immediately. Instead, he sat on the bed beside Clark, a hand’s-span between them.

“Clark, do you know what is being said around town? What Sebastian’s saying?”

“I can imagine,” Clark said dully.

“No, I don’t think you can. What set my alarm bells off, however, was that you were not there. That you have not been seen in public for days. Seb brags of your – willingness, your eagerness, and yet you are not at his side. All this from a man who, you told me frankly last month, you did not like, and made you uneasy. I do not heed unsubstantiated rumours, Clark. Tell me the truth.”

“Everything he says is the truth.”

“I know perfectly well you’re strong enough to have thrown him out the door if he tried anything you didn’t want.”

“Well, isn’t that the point?”

“Damn it, Clark! You’ve been my lover for two months. Every day, several times a day, if we were lucky. There are things about you I don’t know, but there are other things I do know, and you would not just switch partners like that without warning. That’s not in your nature. Now, tell me what hold Seb has over you, and I promise you, I will break it, because I do not believe for one minute that you went to bed with him willingly!”

Clark’s head drooped, and his eyes squeezed tight shut. “But I did! As far as I know, I did!”

With that, he broke down into wrenching sobs, and Lex pulled him into his arms, cradling him tightly, and murmuring soothing sounds into his ear. When he had calmed a little, Lex stroked the black hair back from his forehead gently.

“Now, Clark, I want you to tell me what happened. Everything, you understand? Everything you remember.”

Clark tried to sit up again, but Lex was not letting him go, and after a moment, he relaxed again into Lex’s embrace.

“I-I was invited to a card party at Mount Street,” he began, but Lex interrupted him almost immediately.

“No, go back earlier than that. When did Seb invite you, and why?”

“Oh. I was at Vauxhall with Pete. We ran into the Pyatts, and Captain Fordman. We dined together; it was.... We were all enjoying ourselves. Then Charles and Jenny went to dance, and Pete also went to ask some young lady he’d met, and while they were out on the floor, Veryan showed up at the box. We – we exchanged the usual civilities, then he said that Holt had been ill, and was cooped up in the house. His doctor had apparently forbidden him to get up for at least another three or four days. Veryan asked us – Fordman and myself – if we’d care to form a small card party a couple of days later, to help entertain Holt. I-I saw no harm in it.... I know you told me to avoid him, but he’d asked Fordman, too, and he’s not – not the same type – you know....”

“I know,” Lex reassured him. “So you went to a card party at Mount Street. Did you drink a lot?”

“I – I think so. Lex, I don’t remember much after a while. I – I don’t really remember the... having – having sex with Veryan! I just know it happened, from the morning after,” he said plaintively.

“What do you remember? Do you remember what you drank, and how much? Did you pour your own glass?”

“I – No, not really. He was serving hock. I poured some glasses, but not others. Lex, you know I can drink a lot before feeling it...”

“Yes, I know. So you didn’t notice your glass being filled up, particularly?”

“No.”

“What else do you remember of that night?”

That was too much to ask. Clark trembled in his hold, and gasped for breath, terribly distressed. Lex held him close, carding his fingers gently through the black locks.

“Shh, I’m sorry, it’s all right, everything will be all right, but, Clark, I do need to know everything you remember. It will be far more than you realise. I need to know, if I’m to make repairs.”

He went on like this, earnest and reassuring, for some minutes, until Clark had again calmed a little. This time, when Lex put a hand under his chin to lift his face, he did not pull back, but let Lex study his features. Lex stroked a gentle thumb over one cheek.

“You look terrible. Have you been sleeping?”

“Not very much.”

“What about food? When was the last time you ate?”

Clark closed his eyes briefly. “Food makes me want to throw up.”

“Clark, it’s been five days, if I’ve understood correctly!”

“I – I try, a little, for Mrs. Ross’ sake, but – it’s difficult.” His tone was so lifeless it made Lex’s heart ache.

He stood. Clark looked up at him anxiously, but he stroked Clark’s cheek again reassuringly.

“You should lie down. I’ll get someone to make up a posset for you. You’ll try to eat a little, to please me, hmm?” he coaxed. “I’ll be back in a few minutes. Rest now.”

He left the room and went in search of the butler.

“Tell someone in the kitchens to make up a posset; egg, milk, sugar, a measure of ratafia or Madeira, a touch of nutmeg, and cardamom, if you have it. Make sure it’s warm, and it’s to be left on the little table that’s outside Mr. Kent’s door. You can knock to let me know it’s there, but we’re not to be disturbed.”

“Yes, my lord. Begging your lordship’s pardon, but the master is back, and he asks if you’d kindly step in to see him.”

Lex hesitated. “Tell Mr. Ross that I apologise for the intrusion into his household, but crave his indulgence a little while longer. I will not fail to present myself to him before leaving.”

When Lex returned to the bedroom, Clark had removed his coat and shoes, and lay curled on his side on the bed, the very picture of misery. Lex took a towel from the rack and spread it across the counterpane at the foot of the bed. He took off his own coat, hung it on the back of a chair, and settled on the bed, sitting beside Clark, legs extended in front of him. He did not try to hold Clark, merely put a hand on his shoulder and rubbed small, soothing circles through his shirt. After a minute, Clark crept a little closer, and rested his head against Lex’s thigh. They remained like that, in silence, until there was a tap on the door.

“That will be your posset,” Lex said quietly.

Reluctantly, Clark sat up, and Lex slid off the bed to go to the door. On seeing the tray, he gave a little nod of approval. Someone had exercised some initiative, for besides the posset there were two slices of French toast, cut into readily manageable fingers, and a small jug of barley water, with two glasses. He brought the tray into the room, and locked the door again.

“I see the kitchen is well aware of your sweet tooth,” he teased mildly. There was no response from Clark, but he had not really expected any.

He did not quite feed Clark by hand, but very nearly. He put utensils in Clark’s grasp, helped him close his hands around the bowl and the glass, poured water for him, prompted him to eat and drink. He took it slowly and gently, just sips and nibbles, so as not to upset Clark, but eventually, everything was finished. Pleased, he removed the tray, placing it outside once again, keeping only the water jug, and then encouraged Clark to lie back down again. He took up the same position he had earlier, and Clark immediately shifted to lay his head in Lex’s lap.

They stayed quiet for a little, then Lex asked, “Would you like me to read to you? Where’s your latest book?”

Clark sat up and reached towards the bedside table on the far side. He put a book in Lex’s hands, and lay down again, exactly as before.

“ _Kenilworth_ ,” Lex read from the spine, and smiled a little. “Are you an admirer of the author of the _Waverley_ novels, then?”

The dark head nodded.

“He certainly waxes most eloquent about the Scottish landscape,” Lex agreed. “I wonder if his publisher will ever reveal his identity?”

“This one’s more historical,” Clark said, in a muffled voice. “More like _Ivanhoe_.”

“Really? Very well, where were you?” He found the bookmark, and began reading, letting his free hand stray into Clark’s dark curls, caressing gently.

For a while, Lex let himself become absorbed in the novel. He could sense the tension in Clark’s body fading slowly, and after a little, Clark shifted, so that he lay on his back, aslant the bed, his head still in Lex’s lap. Eventually, however, Lex realised Clark was crying again, silently now, tears trickling steadily from beneath closed eyelids. He put the book aside, and stroked the moist tracks from Clark’s cheeks with the back of one finger.

“Talk to me, Clark,” he whispered.

“I don’t know how you can bear to touch me,” he said brokenly. “I feel – unclean.”

“No. Oh, no, Clark, whatever happened, it happened only to the shell. The core of you is untouched.”

There was a bitter laugh from Clark. “Untouched? Hardly!”

“You must rid yourself of this idea that you were willing, no matter what you think you know.”

“Lex – ” the blue eyes opened, to look up at him. “You know how strong I am. Tell me how any man could possibly take advantage of me?”

“You’re smarter than that, Clark. Do you think you’re immune to drugs?” Lex countered, simply.

Clark sat up, wide-eyed. “Drugs? You think I was drugged?”

“I’m almost sure of it,” came the calm answer. “That’s why I want you to tell me every last detail, no matter how vague.”

“Not just intoxicated?”

“I’ve seen you get merry a few times, but never enough to set down your inhibitions. You can drink a surprising amount of alcohol before showing the effects,” Lex said, with a little smile. He tugged at Clark’s shoulder lightly. “Lie down again, relax, and tell me again everything you remember. You’ll feel better for unburdening yourself.”

Hesitantly, Clark lay back down. Lex immediately twined his fingers in the silken locks once more, and Clark pressed up against his hand a little, as if seeking to be petted. Slowly, Clark began to describe what he remembered of that evening, allowing Lex to build the scene in his mind, supplemented by what he knew of Veryan and his home. Lex let him ramble, sometimes guiding him back to a particular image, but mostly just letting the words flow.

As Lex had suggested earlier, Clark remembered more than he had known. He still did not remember anything of the act, or acts, only waking up the next morning, immediately aware that he had been used, of the semen crusted on his skin, of the rank taste in his mouth, and the stickiness leaking from his anus, of the stale, unmistakable smell of sex in the room.

What brought the tears back, though, was the memory of Veryan entering the room, cheerful, insouciant, as though all was quite normal, complimenting Clark on his stamina and his virility, completely unconcerned, saying he quite understood why Lex had remained so fascinated with him for so long. Clark’s stomach had already been turning, revolted, but that suggestion that whatever had happened the previous night had anything in common with what he had shared with Lex, that had sent him over the edge.

Lex realised that what shamed Clark just as much as the fact that he had been violated was that he had come within a hair’s-breadth of killing Veryan, and had certainly threatened in no unconvincing fashion to break every bone in his body should he ever attempt to speak to Clark again. Although Clark seemed to be unaware of it, from his description, Lex realised that Veryan had been scared enough to void himself. Lex had no great opinion of Veryan’s physical courage, but well knew his vanity. Little wonder, then, that Veryan’s gossip was currently so poisonous to Clark’s reputation.

When he was done, when Lex was sure he had everything he was going to get, Clark was exhausted. Lex settled him back on the bed, stroking his back lightly, high up, between the shoulder blades, careful to keep the touch comforting.

“Clark, you should get some sleep. I have to leave you, there are some things I need to attend to, but I will be back later tonight, and you’re going to come home with me for a few days. I would really like you to do that, I think you’ll be better with me for a little while than here. It will be just you and me, no interruptions, no intrusions, I promise you.”

“Do you really want me in your home, just now?” Clark asked in a small, plaintive voice.

“More than anything,” Lex said sombrely. It will be the last time, a silent voice sounded in his head. He kissed Clark’s temple lightly. “Sleep. I’ll see you later.”

Clark nodded, and like a trusting child, closed his eyes, and curled up to sleep.

Lex sat by him a little longer, until the pattern of his breathing indicated that he really was sleeping, then put his coat back on and slipped silently from the room. Downstairs, he asked to be taken to Mr. Ross. The butler took him to the study, and announced him to the occupants, though Lex did not at first register the presence of a second party.

“Good afternoon, Lord Rutherford,” Ross greeted him simply.

“Mr. Ross.” Lex inclined his head. “I thank you for your understanding, and beg your pardon for this incursion today, but I could not let another day pass without seeing Clark.”

“How is he?”

“Sleeping now, finally.”

“You got him to eat. It’s more than any of us have managed. He has made a pretence at it, and been violently ill shortly afterwards.”

Lex nodded. “I cannot, nor would wish to explain precisely what has happened. Suffice it to say that any rumours you may have heard are vile exaggerations, and I intend to put a stop to them. However, my immediate concern is for Clark. I will be returning later on today, and Clark will come back with me to Rutherford House for a few days...”

“No!” The explosion came from Pete. Startled, Lex only now became aware of him, and was taken aback at the vehemence of his reaction. “No, you can’t take him away again! This whole business is your fault. I told him you’d bring him nothing but trouble, and look at him now! All this is your doing, you live in a world where morals mean nothing, and he would never have met scum like Veryan but for you!”

“Peter!” Ross had tried to interrupt immediately, but only this last, thunderous shout silenced Pete. He glared mutinously at both his father and the Marquis.

“Lord Rutherford cannot be held responsible for the acts of others, Peter. Your tantrum is uncalled for; I suggest you apologise to his lordship immediately,” Ross said sternly.

Lex was very pale, and held up a hand. “No, sir, I accept his strictures. In a way, he’s quite right. You may absolve me of responsibility for another’s actions, but I am not inclined to take advantage of that leniency, which is why I’m determined to do what I can to remedy the situation. However, that includes providing Clark with a safe haven for a day or two. Your concern for him, in this busy household, is oppressive to his state of mind; with me he will be at ease, and none will come to disturb his peace of mind.”

“I’ve been Clark’s best friend for ten years now, and you’ve barely known him a few months,” Pete challenged belligerently. “What gives you the right to say you know what’s best for him?”

Lex turned clear, hard eyes on him. “Because I have been where he is now, and you have not,” he said softly.

Pete recoiled from that cold expression, silenced.

Mr. Ross cleared his throat. “Well, in the end, really, it’s up to Clark as to where he wants to go, but if he wishes to remove to your home for a few days, of course, we’ll assist.”

“Thank you. What I was going to suggest, however, is that when he returns, you encourage him to leave for Oxford right away. I believe that everything is ready for him? Turning up a few days early won’t hurt, and it will get him out from under public scrutiny here. He will probably still want to – to hide for a while. It will be easier in a completely new environment. I cannot undo what has been done, but I can, and will, stop matters going any further, you have my word on that.”

“Please don’t do anything rash, my lord,” Ross said warily. Lex had an air about him that concerned him a little.

“I’m never rash, sir, regardless of appearances,” Lex returned, with the faintest of smiles. “If you’ll excuse me now, I have some related matters to which to attend, but I will return around seven for Clark. Once again, let me reiterate how grateful I am for your forbearance with me today. Good day, gentlemen.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ￼Disclaimer: Many of the characters used in this work of fan-fiction are the creation and property of DC Comics, Time/Warner and all relevant subsidiaries. No infringement of copyright is intended, and no income of any nature is being derived from its publication


	17. In Which Proof Is Sought

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clark finds refuge with Lex, but Lex takes matters into his own hands, having his own doubts about the exact reason for and purpose of Clark's ordeal.

He entered his own house once more on the stroke of three.  


“Is he here?”  he asked Simmons as soon as he had removed his outer garments. 

“Yes, my lord, in the library, as you requested.” 

“Good. Have the Countess’s Bedroom made up for a visitor. Mr. Kent will be staying for a few days. However, I don’t want that publicised, make that clear to the staff. He’s not to be troubled while he’s here. In fact, as of now, I’m not at home to anyone at all, save Armstrong,  who will call at pre-arranged  intervals.” 

“My lord...?” 

“You heard me. No one, not even my father. I’ll be going  out again later to fetch Mr.  Kent. In the meantime, I don’t wish to be disturbed.” 

“Yes, my lord.” Simmons was too well trained to let anything show. 

Lex strode into the library, where a small, undistinguished-looking man waited patiently, reading the newspaper while waiting. 

“Good afternoon, Mr. Armstrong,” Lex said brusquely. 

Armstrong stood promptly. “Good afternoon, my lord. I understand you’ve some work for me?” 

“Yes, and I need it done swiftly, and with the utmost discretion. I want  you to find out for me all the movements of Mr. Sebastian Veryan, from a week last Monday to the present  day. I want to know to whom he talked, and where he went. I’m particularly interested in an excursion to Vauxhall last Thursday. I’m also interested  in an order of macaroons he might have placed  – a rush order, very shortly after that Vauxhall visit.” 

Armstrong raised an eyebrow. “Macaroons, my lord? Are we looking for,  ah, special ingredients?” 

“Very good, Mr. Armstrong,” Lex said dryly. “I see you’re already ahead of the game.  Yes, and if you can find the source of any such special ingredients, there will be a handsome bonus over and above your usual fee. However, I need as much information as possible within the next two or three days. I want a report at the same time, every day. By Friday, I hope to 

know whatever it is I need to know, even if you think you’ve not finished the job yet.” He held out a card, and a small purse. “This is Mr. Veryan’s address, and also his clubs, and that’s  ten guineas for immediate expenses. I trust that will be sufficient?” 

“Ample, my lord,” the investigator reassured him. “Every penny will be reckoned for.” 

Lex nodded curtly. “I am sure of that. I expect to see you tomorrow, then. Good day to  you,  Mr. Armstrong.” 

Armstrong left, and Lex sat at his desk and began writing a series of letters. Once they were sealed, he rang for his manservant, and handed them over. 

“Deliver these, personally, if you please, and do not discuss this with anyone else.” 

“Will we be leaving again soon, my lord?” Raffaele asked, curious. 

Lex smiled a little, crookedly. “Yes. At the earliest possible opportunity on Saturday, if all goes according to plan.” 

“For a long time?” 

“For a very long time.” 

“I shall begin making the necessary preparations,” the manservant said dourly. 

“No one is to know, Raffaele, I am in deadly earnest about that. Especially not Mr. Kent. I assume you’ve been told he’ll be staying for a couple of days.” 

“He will not be accompanying you?” 

“No. No, our paths are soon to diverge. Permanently.” 

The valet gave him a sidelong look, and departed, grumbling something voluble and profane under his breath in his native dialect. 

Lex sat in the library, silent and brooding, until it was time to go back to Adam Street to fetch Clark, but when he saw Clark, his demeanour was serene and welcoming. In the coach, Clark put his head back against the squabs with a faint sigh. 

“How did you know it was getting to be too much?” he asked quietly. 

“Oh, I can just imagine, that’s all. They’re fond of you; it’s fairly obvious that they feel  they stand  in loco parentis.  Which means that you have a solicitous father, a concerned mother, and a host of well-meaning but tactless siblings with which  to contend. Not that I’m  not fond of you, quite the contrary, but at least I won’t be plaguing you every five minutes asking how you feel. I can see that for myself.”

Clark smiled a little. “What are we going to be doing?” 

“Nothing at all, or whatever you want, it’s up to you. I’ve given instructions that I’m not  at home just now, except for a little bit of business that I have in hand at the moment that I need to see through. What I think is that you should try and catch up on your sleep, but other than that, you may lounge about in peace and quiet, until all that jumble going on inside your  head has a chance to quieten down.” 

“I get nightmares when I sleep.”  


Lex took his hand. “We’ll see about that,” he said with quiet determination. 

Clark’s  smile bloomed again. “St. George to the rescue.”  


Lex chuckled. “No, I don’t think I’m ready for canonisation just yet.” 

They sat down to an early supper almost immediately upon arriving back at Rutherford  House; some of Clark’s favourites –  creamy  _vichyssoise_ soup, Whitstable oysters on the half-shell, hare pâté in a herb-flavoured pastry crust, roast gammon joint in a rich Madeira sauce with potatoes and Brussels sprouts, baked apples in custard, and all the usual side trimmings. 

“I see you’re not worried about me being ill again,” Clark said dryly, though with a smile.  It was obvious that the cook had been given firm instructions to tempt his tastebuds. 

“It’s not your stomach that was upset, but your head. You’ll be fine with me. Besides,  I  know you, you’re a bottomless  pit, and after several days of probably nothing but chicken soup  –  and not much of that  – you must be famished.” 

“How did you know it was chicken soup?” 

“Mrs. Ross seems like that type. A firm believer in the tried and tested.” Passing Clark’s  seat on the way to his own, he ruffled the black hair gently, and bent to press a light kiss to his  brow. “You eat  whatever you wish, Clark, but however much that is, you might as well enjoy it,  no?” 

Clark had never thought of Lex as restful before. He was all intense, nervous energy, usually, with his crackling intelligence and razor-sharp wit only partially concealed by the elegant languor of his physical grace. Yet now, as earlier that day, he was like a deep, still pool, calm and quiet, thoughtful and serene. He talked idly of his horses, and plans for the next  season’s racing, of the potential of the new notion of steam engine transportation, of archaeology, and Champollion, whose work on the Rosetta Stone looked like it might be coming to 

fruition, according to the latest reports. Clark knew he was avoiding certain types of subjects, but there was no sense of strain about the conversation, and it was almost like being back at the Park again. 

It was still early by the time they had reached the port, only just past nine, so Lex asked,  “What would you like to do now? If you want to retire, by all means, do so. Or would you like a game of chess?” 

“Actually,” Clark said, “I’d like to listen to you play. I’ve missed that. I hadn’t expected to.” 

Lex cocked his head, smiling. “Really? Anything in particular?” 

“No. Whatever you feel like. It’s – You’re probably going to want to throttle me for the heresy,” he interjected, with a shy grin, “but it’s not so much the music itself, it’s that I get the  impression  I know what you’re thinking when you play. I mean, the pieces you choose tend to reflect your thoughts. I think,” he concluded, a trifle uncertainly. “Except, of course, when you’re repeating the same bar over a hundred and fifty times,” he added on a slightly tart note. 

“It’s called practise, you heathen, so that you get it  right the hundred and fifty-first time.  You know, I still haven’t made up my mind whether you’re a complete Philistine, or whether  there really is hope for you. However, I promise not to play arpeggios a hundred and fifty times  tonight.” 

Clark had expected to go to the music room, but Lex led him to one of the upstairs lounges. Clark was able to do as he had done at the Park, find a comfortable seat a little out of sight, and settle down with his book, while Lex leafed through the scores currently sitting on the piano to find something that suited his mood. His first selection was light, a series of dance-like pieces that made for pleasant listening. Then, however, he started something quite different, a slow, sombre piece that at first made no impact on Clark, but gradually drew him in, until it was as if he was in a different world, where time stood still between one note and the next, where silence was something profound and meaningful, where the music questioned, sometimes hesitant, sometimes demanding. At the end, there was no answer, but perhaps there  was a sort of peace, though it was more resigned than joyful. Clark’s throat  felt tight, tears burned in his eyes, and he felt as if he had not breathed in far too long. He could not hide the deep gulp of air he took, and Lex turned to look at him. Quickly, he left the stool, and came to  Clark’s side, sitting  on the edge of the  chair to put his arm around Clark’s shoulders. 

“I’m so sorry, Clark, that obviously wasn’t a good idea,” he said earnestly. “I didn’t mean to upset you...” 

“No, it’s...” He cleared his throat. “I don’t know why I’m – like this.” He swallowed a  couple  of times, still overset. “What – what was that?”

“Beethoven. So were the other pieces, the Bagatelles, but they’re about twenty years  old now. This came out just two years ago, and his musical language has intensified in the intervening  period. I’m sorry, I didn’t think how it might sound to you.” 

“I felt – like the clock had stopped ticking. Like my heart had stopped beating.” Clark rested his head against Lex’s shoulder. “Or rather, not stopped, but just beating very, very  slowly, as if time  was all stretched out. Oh, I don’t know how to describe it.” 

Lex hugged him gently. “I suppose I’m flattered,” he said, trying for a light note. “It is a very long piece, and that was just the slow movement of the sonata. If you didn’t fall asleep, I must be doing something right.” 

Clark grinned fleetingly. “False modesty does not become you, Lex, you know perfectly well how good you are.” 

“Well, yes,” he acknowledged disarmingly, “but let me tell you that sonata is a real beast  of a piece, and I’ve  been struggling with it for ages. You do  not  want to hear the outer movements, let me tell you. Whoever it was who dubbed it the “Hammerklavier” had the right idea.” 

Clark chuckled faintly. “Does that mean what it sounds like?” 

“No, not really,” Lex smiled. “Actually, it just means the piano. Any piano like that one, the modern Broadwood, or the Austrian Streicher, that’s much more powerful than the old Zumpe models and their like. They’re going to get stronger yet, too,” he added reflectively. “I  know Broadwood is talking of using metal braces in the frame, to add to the tensile strength  – but you don’t want a lecture on pianoforte manufacture technology,” he interrupted himself wryly. “I can see your eyes glazing over.” 

“Sometimes it’s so easy to distract you,” he teased gently. Clark’s composure had  returned,  but he had no wish to leave the comforting circle of Lex’s arm as yet. 

“And you’re particularly good at it,” Lex scolded lightly. “Anyway, to come back to the  nickname, no, it doesn’t  actually mean what it sounds like, but it certainly seems appropriate, especially when you know the whole piece.” He fell silent for a moment, and Clark felt Lex’s cheek resting against the top of his head. “Could you read my mind, while I was playing?” he  asked softly. 

It was Clark’s turn to be silent for a little. “Yes. I think so. You’re sad, and you’re angry. Not at me,” he added hastily, “mostly at yourself,  I think. Lex, why? I  –  I know Pete said something to you. I know he blames you,  but you shouldn’t listen to him...” 

“Oh, but he’s right,” Lex said gravely. 

“That’s ridiculous. What could you have done?” 

Lex sighed. “I could have told you exactly what Seb wanted when he came to visit that  day at the Park. Remember? You were out on that paper-chase. You just crossed him as he  was leaving, and you were surprised that he wasn’t staying for dinner.” 

“Yes, I remember, but,” he turned his face up to Lex, puzzled, “I don’t see....” 

Lex brought his other hand up to stroke Clark’s cheek gently. “I told you we were  accomplices  in debauchery. I don’t know what you imagined, but a large part of that was that  we tended to share our bed-partners. In all these years, if we were in the same place at the  same time, I don’t ever recall there  being an occasion when a conquest, whether his or mine, was not enjoyed by the other. Not at the very beginning, perhaps, but quite soon after we initially made acquaintance. When he came to the Park that was his purpose. He thought that  I’d had enough  time with you to myself, and would be ready to  –  to pursue our normal arrangement. I told him in no uncertain terms that this time was different, that I was neither prepared to share you, nor did I think that you would be amenable to the prospect yourself. I thought that he had accepted that some time, there had to be a change in our ways. I was a  fool. If I’d told you, you would have been on your guard against him. Instead, I thought both to  spare your sensibilities, and to avoid having to go into details about parts of my life of which I  am not very proud. So you see, Clark, your friend was not wrong, I am to blame.” 

“Is this all – pity, then?” Clark asked, in a small voice. 

Lex’s eyes flared, and he stood abruptly, turning away to pace vigorously  before directing a tight mask of a face towards Clark. “Is that what you think it is?” he countered. 

“No,” Clark said, his voice hoarse. “No, I don’t. In that case, though, you can’t be to  blame, either. Maybe telling me would have helped, but  you’re not to blame that Veryan took this course of action.” 

“In earlier years, I’d have done the same.” 

“Would you? Would you have – have drugged someone to have your way with them?” 

“I – ” He stopped, and struggled with words for a moment, then  his shoulders slumped  a little. “No. No, I’ve never had to coerce anybody, and would think it shameful to do so. If I don’t have sufficient charm to make participation wholly voluntary, then I should be looking  elsewhere. It was a game, but not a competition.  I don’t count coup.” 

There was a long silence. “Lex – what do you want of me here?” 

He closed his eyes for a moment, seeking to regain all his self-possession.  “What I would like,” he said eventually, slowly, “is to take you to bed, and make  love to you until  neither your mind nor your body recalls ever having been touched by any other hands than  mine. That is what I want. However, I very much doubt that you’re ready for that, and I will not  set another layer of coercion, however insidious,  upon that which you’ve already suffered.”

“I thought it was you,” Clark said slowly in the heavy silence that followed Lex’s heated  statement.  “You realise that? I thought I was with you. There was nobody else who  could  touch me so intimately, and I heard no voice, saw no object that might shake me from my  –  my  imaginings. I’m ashamed, not because he had me, but because I didn’t know better than to let  him, because I was duped, because all my senses were turned against me for a while, so I let another  have what only you have had, what I wanted only you to have. Yet I’m convinced that  he actually believed that however things may have started out, in the end, I knew what I was  doing, that I knew I was with him, and not you. That’s not the case, Lex.  It was always you,  always.” 

Lex nodded. “He would be. He cannot conceive that not everyone might be as promiscuous as he is, or that anyone might ever cease to be so. I don’t imagine it’s much comfort to you, but you mustn’t take Seb’s actions as any  sort of reflection on your character. He has no  knowledge of that, he simply makes assumptions based on his own nature. I’m afraid, though, that you wounded his vanity profoundly, hence his spite.” He drew close again, and dropped a  light kiss atop Clark’s  head. “In the meantime, I’ve had the Countess’s Bedroom made up for you. You remember, it’s the one you used to change in the very first time you came here. However, it’s adjoining mine. If you need me, you’ll know where to find me.” 

In the early hours of the morning, Lex awoke abruptly, conscious that one of the doors to his bedroom had opened. He sat up. 

“Clark?” 

Clark was initially a formless white shade, only the nightshirt he wore visible, until Lex’s  eyes adjusted to the dark. He came forward a little hesitantly, but sat on the edge of the bed. Lex found his arm, and ran his hand soothingly up and down it. 

“Nightmares?”  


“I’ve not really slept,” Clark admitted huskily. “Lex...” 

“Yes?” 

“When you said you wanted to make me forget  anyone else had ever touched me  – could you really do that?” 

“I can promise I’d try my damnedest.” 

After a moment, Clark nodded, and stood again. Lex moved over in the bed, pulling aside the covers. Clark still hesitated, though, fingering the ties of his shirt nervously. Lex reached out again. 

“You don’t need to take it off, if you don’t want. You don’t need to do anything more than sleep beside me. Just know that it is me, this time,” he smiled faintly. 

Clark got in, and drew the covers around them, but after a minute, sat up again and pulled off his nightshirt in one decisive movement before settling back down. He turned on his side, facing Lex. 

“I want to hold you,” he whispered. 

Lex just smiled again, and shifted his position so that Clark could spoon around him, as had become their wont during the summer. He pressed back against warm flesh, and a strong  arm came around his waist to hold him close. He felt Clark’s breath against his neck, and put his own arm over Clark’s. 

“I know it’s you,” Clark murmured. “You smell different. Right.” 

“You remember a scent?” Lex asked curiously. 

“It comes back in the nightmares. Something sickly sweet, cloying, surrounding me, as if I’m drowning in it. You’re spicy, not sweet.” 

“Very appropriate,” Lex chuckled a little. “Somehow, I don’t associate myself with sweet.” 

“Oh? What do you call this?”  
“Solicitous.”  
“Sweet.” He could hear the smile in Clark’s voice. “Quiet, Ganymede, and go to sleep,” he said firmly. 

“Yes, Lex,” came  the meek reply, but the smile was still very much in evidence. He  smiled himself, and nestled back a little. Clark’s embrace tightened in response, and they lay in  peaceful silence, until sleep claimed first one, then the other. 

In the morning, they lay in exactly the same position. Clark slept on, deeply, but Lex was awakened, as usual, by the arrival of his valet with fresh water. Lex noted with wry amusement  that Raffaele was delighted to see Clark curled up behind his master; he had taken a liking to the young man during the summer, and was not happy that Lex planned to sever the connection. Clearly, seeing Clark in Lex’s bed this morning, he thought that Lex had changed his mind.  He would discover otherwise soon enough, Lex reflected regretfully. The feel of Clark behind him, the comfort of being wrapped up in that warm embrace, was almost enough to get him to rethink his plans, but he knew he could not.

He let himself slip back into a light doze, and judged that it was maybe another hour and  a half before Clark began to stir. As had become his habit, Clark nuzzled into Lex’s nape, and  pressed a kiss to the flesh there before greeting him. 

“Morning,” Clark said, in a sleep-muffled  voice. 

Lex rolled over to face him. He looked very much better this morning. The shadows under his eyes had faded considerably, and his features were not so drawn, more relaxed.  Most importantly, his eyes shone again, still a little muted, but nothing like the dull blankness of the previous morning. Lex considered him with a fairly blatant air of satisfaction, and caressed his cheek lightly.

“Well, if you had nightmares, they were quiet ones, because we hardly moved all night,”  he said smugly. 

“No nightmares. I think the scent did it, you know,” he said shyly. “I hate that sweet smell.” 

“Seb always did have a weakness for oil of roses. He would lay off it when he visited me, because I’m not fond of it, either, but in his own house, it was a different matter.” 

Clark buried his face again in the curve  of Lex’s shoulder, and breathed in deeply, even as his hands began to rove, tentatively at first, then with more assurance as he felt Lex’s pli ancy. The growing sensuality of the moment, however, was unceremoniously broken by the vulgar demands of an empty stomach. Lex practically doubled up with laughter, while Clark turned scarlet with mortification, before seeing the funny side of it and succumbing to laughter, too. 

“You bottomless pit!” Lex repeated his taunt from the previous evening. “That, my  sweet, is what you get for starving yourself for several days  –  inopportune reminders from the bread-box!”  He poked Clark lightly in the tummy. “Shall we see what’s for breakfast?” 

Even as he sat up, though, Clark’s arms went around his waist to hold him  back, and  then Clark was pressed close against his back once more, his mouth warm against Lex’s ear. 

“I am hungry,” Clark acknowledged, “but for more than just breakfast, and I think you mean more to me than food.” 

Lex leaned against him, tilting his head back, revelling in the brush of those full lips against his throat, and the firm embrace that held him. 

“We don’t need to get dressed,” he said in a low tone. “I had the silk robes brought from the Park. I’ll have breakfast  served across the landing. We can come straight back. Is that  what you want?” 

Clark made a sound of assent. 

“Clark?” Lex laughed softly. “You still have to let me go.” 

Clark just held him even more tightly, but Lex could feel both the grin and the mock pout. 

“Don’t want to. You feel good.” 

Lex patted the restraining arms lightly. “No doubt, but I refuse to listen to your growling stomach for one second longer than I have to.” 

Clark chuckled softly, and freed him. 

As Lex had hoped, by the early afternoon, Clark was quite content to remain in a gentle doze, exhausted both physically and mentally. Lex slipped silently from the bed and dressed quickly, before going downstairs to meet Armstrong for a progress report. 

The unobtrusive little man was waiting, patiently, as ever, in one of the rear drawing rooms. 

“You have something for me?” Lex demanded, as he entered. 

“I think so, my lord,” Armstrong replied, “though if it’s what I think it is, you’re not going to like it, I’m afraid.” 

“Tell me, anyway.” 

In  answer, Armstrong merely held out a small, rectangular card. “It’s surprising what people throw away without thinking,” he commented obliquely. 

Lex took the card. One side was printed; Armstrong, watching his employer closely, saw that the name and address meant nothing to him. When he flipped the card over however, it was a different matter. 

“You found this at Veryan’s?” Lex asked, his voice studiedly neutral. His complexion,  naturally very pale, had shown little change, but his eyes, after the initial flare of shock, were now heavily hooded, and showing no further reaction whatsoever.

“Yes, my lord. I take it,” he approached the topic delicately, “that you recognise the  writing?” 

Lex did not answer immediately. “Do you have any sort of corroboration?” 

“I went to the Vauxhall Gardens, as you suggested, my lord. While no one would  actually confirm that they observed  these two persons,” he hedged diplomatically, “conversing, one waiter clearly recalls bringing a second glass to Mr. Veryan’s box  at one point during the evening, and shortly thereafter seeing a certain party leave the immediate vicinity of that box.  I’m afraid that’s rather inconclusive, however. As to the macaroons, I made some enquiries.  There were none ordered in, but Mr. Veryan’s  cook was requested to make some, and Mr.  Veryan took a particular interest in their preparation.  That’s not wholly  unusual; apparently he  likes to dabble from time to time.” 

Lex nodded, and Armstrong continued. “However, if I understood correctly,  he tends more to observe and comment from the sidelines. This time, he actually got his hands dirty, if you will. At any rate, there was certainly at least one period when he would have been able to  add something to the mix unobserved.” He cocked his head. “May I ask, my lord, how you knew? I’d have been looking at the wine, myself.” 

Lex was silent for a moment. “I take it you’ve worked out for yourself why I’m asking these questions?” 

“Mr. Veryan’s been rather voluble around town about a certain  mutual acquaintance of  yours. I’m assuming you believe there’s something more to the matter than the usual gossip.” 

“I knew there had to be. I’ve had some details of the evening. Wine was too obvious,  but when I heard that a dish of macaroons was laid out, I knew. Veryan would have known from visiting me in July that Mr. Kent has a sweet tooth, and that Captain  Fordman doesn’t like  macaroons. If there were macaroons available, you may be sure that my friend was the only one to eat them, and he would  have enjoyed them.” 

Armstrong nodded approvingly. “Very sound reasoning, if I may say so, my lord. You’d make a fair investigator yourself.” 

“Thank you, I think,” Lex returned dryly. “What of the apothecary? Have you ascertained the nature of the  drug he sold Veryan?” 

Armstrong grimaced. “That’s harder. The shop seems clean, and I can’t just walk in  there asking awkward questions.” 

“I don’t suppose you have any more of his cards?” Lex asked thoughtfully. 

Armstrong blinked. “Now that you mention it, my lord...” He produced four more white  cards. Lex took a couple, with a faint, cold smile. 

“Wait here.” 

He was back within five minutes, and held out one of the cards to the investigator. “Try that on him.” 

Armstrong took the card, and  looked at the writing on the back. It said, _Tell the bearer what he needs to know. L._ The writing, and particularly the initial, looked identical to that on the card he had recuperated from Veryan’s home. He opened wide eyes. 

“Well, blow me! That’s not a talent I ever expected to find in the aristocracy!” 

Lex’s fine mouth twisted wryly. “You might be surprised at what one learns in the name of survival. Will it pass, do you think?” 

“Unless the apothecary’s a sight better acquainted  with him than he ought to be, if you get my drift, I think this should  do nicely, my lord. I’ll get right on to it.” 

“I expect to hear from you tomorrow.” 

He already had a shrewd idea as to what information Armstrong would bring him, he reflected after the man had left the house, by the rear. Not as to the specific nature of the drug Clark had been given, but as to its supplier. When first the Hellfire Club, and then its emulates, had broken up, amidst rather more publicity than any of the surviving members would have wished, there were many who had supplied goods and services of various natures to these clubs who were exposed, and their trade ruined. There were equally many who had gone underground, only to surface years later as apparently respectable tradesmen. Lex had little doubt that this apothecary was one of those  –  or closely related to one  –  who had supplied the club members with a variety of potent little melanges. Lionel never discarded useful contacts, as long as he could maintain discretion. 

There was nothing Lex could do about his father, but Veryan was a different matter. Lionel thought him sentimental; he was about to discover just how wrong he was. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ￼Disclaimer: Many of the characters used in this work of fan-fiction are the creation and property of DC Comics, Time/Warner and all relevant subsidiaries. No infringement of copyright is intended, and no income of any nature is being derived from its publication


	18. In Which Retribution Is Swift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lex takes matters into his own hands, with serious consequences.

Lex dressed with particular care on Friday evening. His black eveningwear and white shirt were the finest Weston had to offer, lovingly tailored to his slim form. Weston dressed many of the upper class, but always favoured those upon whom, he felt, his talent was not wasted, and Lex was one of his preferred customers. It showed in the meticulous attention to  the slightest detail the celebrated tailor lavished upon Lex’s clothes. The waistcoat was unpat terned, but had no need to be, for the colour and fabric stood in lieu of any design; shimmering Indian tussore silk in an exquisite pale amethyst shade, mounted on heavy white silk for the backing. The buttons were discreet silver studs. In his faultlessly arranged neck-cloth, Lex wore his amethyst pin, and his usual amethyst signet on his hand. His red hair was caught back by a tie made from the same material as his waistcoat. 

It took him a couple of hours to discover exactly where Veryan had chosen to play that night, but it was still before midnight when he walked into the card-room at the Atlas Club to find Veryan in the midst of a game of hazard, surrounded by a host of like-minded gamblers. He knew immediately that Veryan was aware of his presence, but was pretending to be absorbed in the game. No matter, others soon enough registered his arrival, and hailed him cheerfully. 

“Ho, Rutherford, come to fleece us all!” 

“Perhaps,” Lex returned nonchalantly. “Whose are the dice?” 

“Oh, Veryan’s. You know he always starts a new game with his own.” 

“Aye.” He smiled lazily, his eyes narrowed. “In that case, you’ll  excuse me. I like my  games more impartial.” 

His words fell like a stone into a pond, the ripple spreading out inexorably, silencing all the chatter around. Veryan looked up from the table, white-faced.  Quickly, he went to Lex’s  side, seized his arm and pulled him aside. Lex allowed this, though his expression did not change. 

“Lex, what are you playing at?” Veryan hissed, livid. “You know perfectly well I don’t load my dice.” 

“That’s not the only game in town, though, is it?” he returned softly.  


“Is this about the Kent boy? Damn it, Lex, I’ve done nothing  we  haven’t done before....” 

“You must absolve me of that. I don’t recall ever drugging my prey before. Nor do I go  around wrecking the reputations of innocent young men or women afterwards. You appear to have forgotten that innocence is something that can be quite independent of carnal experience. What happens in private should stay in private, unless all parties are agreed otherwise. Furthermore,”  he added, with a dangerous air, “I expressly warned you off Kent, and I’m not  accustomed  to being ignored. Not by the likes of you.” 

“Are you trying to pick a fight?” 

“How  astute of you,” Lex mocked. 

“I am not going to fight with you, Lex,” Veryan vowed, his tone unsteady. 

“Have I not  done enough? Will  this  suffice, then?” With that, Lex dealt him a stunning  backhanded blow that sent him to the floor. 

Veryan picked himself up slowly, fingers pressed to his split lip, acutely conscious of the thirty-odd pairs of eyes now fixed on them, awaiting a resolution to this startling turn of events.  After Lex’s blow, however, there was only one possible outcome. 

“Name your seconds, sir,” Veryan said shakily. 

Lex made a gesture towards the door. “They’re here already. You’re acquainted  with my half-brother,  and Major Pyatt. Name yours, Veryan. Six o’clock, tomorrow morning, Lesnes Abbey Woods.” 

Lex left the club promptly, and returned home. An hour later, Lucas and Charles turned up, and were admitted to the library by Simmons. Lex was seated in one of the wingback chairs, nursing a glass of burgundy, and looked up as they entered. 

“Well?” he asked, without preamble. 

“Pistols,  as you predicted,”  Lucas said. “He named Turnbury and Butterworth. The time  and place were agreed, as  you demanded. Lex, if you’re going to duel in the morning, you  should be in bed, not up and drinking.” 

“I’ve barely had anything to drink this evening at all.” 

“Lex, are you sure you know what you’re doing?” Charles asked, clearly unhappy. “You’ve  known Veryan for years;  you’ve always known what he was like. I admit that if he did drug Kent...” 

“He did.”

“Well, it was a damned shabby thing to do, but is it really worth fighting a duel over? Worth the risk?” 

“You think he can outshoot  me?”  Lex  asked, sardonically amused. 

“No, and that’s exactly what worries me! This isn’t like you.” 

Lex held up a hand. “Clark is merely part of a much bigger picture, one that I cannot explain to you. Will you stand by me or not, Charles?” 

“You know I will.  I owe you my life. I told you back then I was your friend for as long as I  drew breath, and nothing’s changed. I just wish you’d reconsider. At the very least, don’t kill him. He’s not worth the upset to your life that will occur if you do.” 

“Pistols can be so imprecise sometimes, though,” Lex replied casually. 

“Not in your hands.” Charles sighed. “Very well. At least I can honestly say I’ve done my duty as your second correctly.” 

Lex grinned fleetingly. “I don’t recall hearing either of you suggest I should apologise.” 

“As soon ask the stars to fall from the sky,” Lucas shot back dryly. “Lex, you’d better be shooting straight tomorrow morning. I shan’t forgive you otherwise.” 

“I am deeply touched by your concern.” Although the tone  was mocking, it was also affectionate.  “Go to bed, the pair of you. I promise you I will be stone cold sober tomorrow morning. Just make sure the doctor’s there, too.” 

When Lucas came to collect him in the morning, he was fresh and alert. Everything was ready. Charles had gone for the doctor. The yacht was moored at Thamesmead, ready to sail  with the next tide, and Raffaele was already on board with the basic essentials of Lex’s luggage.  He had left instructions for the remainder of his effects, and Lucas would see to that after his departure. There was one other letter, that had taken him long minutes to write the previous afternoon, that he had entrusted to Armstrong to deliver, rather than Lucas, otherwise everything was as prepared as he knew how to make it. That left only the duel, and as they drove to the Abbey Woods, he brooded over circumstances, grateful that his brother knew to leave him in peace with his thoughts. 

Although they were not late in arriving, Veryan and his seconds were already present. Charles and the doctor arrived within minutes of Lex, and the two sets of seconds met to finalise details. After a moment, though, Lucas came towards Lex. 

“Veryan’s asking to talk to you in private,” he said quietly. 

Lex glanced across the sward at his former friend, and nodded briefly. Veryan crossed the clearing, as Lucas eclipsed himself. 

“Lex – this is insane,” Veryan said intently, once he stood face to face with Lex. “I don’t know what Kent’s told you, but he  was  cooperative...” 

“He’s told me a great deal, probably more than he realises himself. I noticed last night that you didn’t deny you’d drugged him.” 

“That was the least of my concerns last night! I didn’t...” 

“Don’t lie to me,” Lex cut him off. He studied Veryan coldly for a moment. “You really don’t understand, do you? This isn’t about you at all. I’m making an example of you.” 

Veryan blanched. “What?” 

“I can’t call out the person who’s really behind this, but you should have known better.”  From an inner breast  pocket, he withdrew a small white card. “I’ve told you before never to get between me and my father. He used you, you were stupid enough to let him, and I’m afraid you’re about to pay the price.” 

Veryan looked at the card, and swallowed nervously.  “Lex, I can explain...” 

“I don’t need an explanation, I know perfectly well what happened. You weren’t willing  to take no for an answer, my father played on your desire, and gave you the tools you needed  to assuage it,” he said, in an oddly gentle tone. “Go back to your seconds. We’ve said all there is to say here. Adieu, Seb.” 

Veryan walked back to his seconds in a daze. He had had the choice of weapons, and had picked pistols, because he was a fair shot himself, whereas with the sword, he had little competence, but against Lex, determined to kill him, he knew he was lost. He would have been lost with either choice. He had never imagined death would come to him like this; he had never imagined his death at all, if he could possibly avoid it, but at the hands of a man whose bed and body he had shared? It was inconceivable. 

Pure reflex made him aim and fire according to instinct and practice,  but Lex’s slender,  black-clad figure seemed to blend into the woods behind him. If he hit, he never knew either that, or anything else thereafter. 

As soon as the doctor pronounced Veryan dead, Lex made for his carriage, his seconds keeping pace alongside him.

“Charles, take the doctor back to town, and go home,” he said kindly. “You know  nothing of this  other than what you saw and heard these last couple of days, but I’ll write. My  best to Jenny. Lucas, you have your instructions, and you know to contact Havrelack, if need  be. I doubt I’ll take the yacht round to the north, it’s getting too late in  the season for that.  More likely, I’ll travel overland to Hamburg, and take passage to Odessa from there. If that’s the case, I’ll have the yacht brought back to Brighton for winter berthing. One last thing,” he  said, pausing before entering his carriage,  “I have written to Clark separately. Neither of you is  to say anything to him, do you understand me? Whatever you may think, this has not been solely about him, and I will not have you burdening him with a sense of guilt that is completely misplaced.  The one other person truly concerned will get the message when Seb’s death is made public knowledge.” 

“When will we see you again?” Lucas asked anxiously. 

“Oh, sooner rather than later, I imagine,” Lex said lightly. “Don’t worry. I know the art  of making myself indispensable to the right people. It will be a little while, but I will return,  never fear.” He put his hand on Lucas’  shoulder.  “I expect to find you a married man when I  do, let me tell you! I shall be very disappointed in you if you haven’t  managed to persuade Miss Sullivan of your sterling qualities by then.” 

They watched the carriage drive off. 

“If I didn’t think Lex would never forgive me, I’d strangle Kent with my bare hands,”  Lucas said fiercely. 

“That’s hardly fair, Lucas,” Pyatt said quietly. “None of this was truly his doing.” 

“They should never have met. I won’t lightly forgive him for his part in Lex’s exile.” 

 

&*&*&*&*&*&

 

The way all conversation ceased the moment he walked into the room at breakfast that Saturday was enough to warn Clark that something was seriously wrong. He stopped in his tracks, and eyed the Ross family warily. 

“Is something the matter?” he asked, then panicked. “My parents...!” 

“No,” Mr. Ross said swiftly, “no, Clark, it’s not your parents. However, we’ve received  some news this morning, not to mention a couple of letters.... Maybe you should sit down  first.” 

He did so, apprehensive. 

“You know we discussed your leaving for Oxford a few days early?” the judge continued. Clark nodded. “You might  consider leaving today, or tomorrow at the latest. There have been developments in town that  –  from which you might wish to distance yourself. At the moment, I know only the merest rumour, but there was a letter delivered for you very early this morning.” He signed to their butler, and Clark was presented with a letter on a salver. 

Clark recognised the seal immediately, and broke it with trembling fingers.

  


–  th September 1821 

Dear Clark, 

By now you will no doubt have heard that in the early hours of this morning, I fought a duel with Sebastian Veryan, & killed him. 

It is quite true. By the time you read this, I will probably have landed in France. I will be going East for some considerable time, until the authorities back home have been placated, or until I have rendered such service to some power of the land as to make my presence back on my native soil indispensable, which may not be as long as all that, if you will pardon the somewhat cynical reflection. 

I know you. You will be blaming yourself for this latest turn of events. Do not. There were more things concerned in what passed between you & Seb than you could possibly realise. You were, in some respects, merely a pawn in a more complex game, & it is that for which Seb has paid the price. Please do not expend your energies in trying to prove otherwise. I did not tell you what I was planning for the  very simple reason that I knew you would, & probably could, try to talk me out of it, as you did regarding Nixon, & that was something I was not prepared to have happen. I apologise for any distress I may be causing you

However, for your peace of mind, I strongly suggest that you leave for Oxford forthwith. It will be a different environment there, far removed from the spiteful trivia of London gossip, & you can immerse yourself in your studies, just as you immerse yourself in your books so readily. I also strongly recommend that you consign my memory to the attic. I should never have drawn you into my world in the first place. It was a selfish move, & exposed you to characters & mores of which you should have remained ignorant. 

My world is not yours, not because of any distinction in birth, but because there is a fundamental corruption in mine which has no place in your life. What I have done today is something I know you will find unpardonable, & so it seems advisable that we not meet again. I am sure that that is the most sensible solution for us both. I cannot regret having known you, but our paths diverge irrevocably here, & I am convinced that it is for the best. 

I know that you will be an ornament to your college, & that those who will call you friend will always be grateful for  the privilege, as I have been in the few short months of our acquaintance.

Farewell Lex Luthor. 

 

Clark folded up the letter again with trembling hands, and got to his feet, a little unsteadily. He turned wild eyes on the judge. 

“Sir – forgive me, I need to....” 

He could not voice exactly what he needed to do, but Ross waved him away anyway. Clark was out of the house moments later, and it was all he could do to stop himself from running with all the phenomenal speed he had at his command  to Lex’s home. A carter’s  wagon stood outside the front door, which was open, as liveried servants transported large trunks and odd-shaped boxes from the house to stack them carefully in the wagon. Clark made his way up the steps and into the foyer, unchallenged by the busy servants, but then one of the side doors opened, and Lucas came out, issuing instructions over his shoulder. 

He stopped in his tracks as soon as he saw Clark. 

“You! What do you want?” he asked, with blatant hostility. 

“I –  Lex  –  I received a letter  – Is he...?” Clark stammered helplessly. 

“Lex has gone.” 

“Where? Can I reach him?” 

Lucas’s dark eyes narrowed. “Haven’t you done enough damage already?” he asked  venomously. 

Clark recoiled as if he had been struck, and, helpless in the face of Lucas’s animosity, fled  the house blindly. 

 

END PART ONE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, there it is, the end of Part One of "His to Hold". Part Two will follow shortly.

**Author's Note:**

> ETA : I'm a little puzzled as to how Parts 2 and 3 of this story haven't had nearly as many hits as Part 1 - unless I haven't made my tags specific enough, in which case, please let me know! Because it was conceived as a whole, and you are meant to go on and read the other two parts. Pretty please?! 
> 
> ￼Disclaimer: Many of the characters used in this work of fan-fiction are the creation and property of DC Comics, Time/Warner and all relevant subsidiaries. No infringement of copyright is intended, and no income of any nature is being derived from its publication


End file.
